Blindsided
by Rupert Loydell
[ poetry - september 08 ]
It is dark in the luminarium. There is
just enough light to see how the moon
hangs by a thread from the rafters.
The bats are happiest. And the owls
who are lost in sunshine and at night:
ghost birds on the towers of silence.
With moth wings and antennae
we might feel our way to morning;
frightened fingers flick the unseen.
Fear is a slow death-march to nowhere
alongside steam-trains rusting in the dark.
Our lunatic captive illuminates memory
but we have forgotten what we do not know.
The past is about to explode from the centre
and we are no use now if we cannot speak.
