Cells stir now from sleep
like unused muscles
stiff inflexible and yawning
rubbing their eyes in disbelief
as a burnt horizon makes its way
toward these dry undesperate
on the polished table of chance.
Wattled faces (grey) had fallen
into place like grubby vintage coins
settling in a fruit[stroke]loot machine.
Meanwhile, from behind a pile of
old discarded fire-retardant clothes
a naked lozenge shape of hazy
sunshine fringed with vermillion
rose like seedlings grow and
reached out gingerly with one
deluded hand to every passerby.
Not one face ever turned and not a
single finger has unclenched its fist
from that day then to this and thus
revealing loud unflowered palms.
And now with that horizon in my eye
those sparks which once I’d thought
to be alarms became a trace of sky.
If suspense deserved a face
it would be mine; for in my telescope
I saw the Queen of Hearts was
sailing swiftly on the brindley brine
(though I believed her not when on
the silken handkerchief she waved
in my direction she politely wrote
Be patient still, you restless man;
for soon you will be rapturously
caught up in my rescueplan.
© Alan Morrison, 2013