April

The sky rising up from the sea
something in me?

Each man sets his own horizon
which lies on
the
broadsword of the uncut
umbilical.

As much as I see
I see virtual reality
and a veil drawing
over the day.

Voices of reason chattering away
scattering the clouds that
lay over the bay and
spoiling the view, but
you are the muse where
the words from a heart and
the thoughts in a head
come together and
fuse.

The cat
(if there was one)
has gone
the bell tinkles on.

The fine line,
the first line of defence
was,
(when I was a boy)
the old garden fence where
words were batted like
ping pong balls.

Old fences fall and
innovation calls,
the mobile phone
the mobile office
the mobile home
and we’re all immobilised
looking surprised.

The sea remains
stains on the bedsheets
dirty plates in the sink
washing in the basket
I think
I must make
a move.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.