As the sound of every cellful thing arches its wowsly way
within my molten mind, the stars stand still as if saluting
what has gone before, till twilight paints itself in patterns
predetermined by the rays [I marvel for an obscene while]
flung by the sun in front of this young poet’s doors, ablaze,
and in all craziness he bows before its wisdom with a smile.
Graceless greenish crops, which fester growingly in bunches
all along the kerbside of the path I tread, break out in song:
“What madness have we here?” In truth, a man whose mind
has lost its moorings (therefore having nothing left to fear)
pictures with all clarity the whereabouts of everything and
everyone, for minds which have no home are free to roam.
So when your boat is no more tied with ropes onto the quay
your heart will drift unchartedly to find, at last, its destiny.
For only when unfollowing the trodden paths and folding up
the sanctuary proffered through your carefully-written maps,
your sextant plots its course [no human hand for me]. If almost
all the world proclaims you mad you will, with grace, forgive
that darkened understanding (for in time you know they’ll see).
© Alan Morrison, 2017