A canvas at dusk with the lamps lit
Standing far out of time, far out of place,
In the distance the motorway thunders past Rhyl
Like a heart-attack, a choking artery
Of brake-lights and headlights
Hurtling of unexamined lives on their way
To.
I stand, around me breaks a pandemonium
A flickering tapestry of absence, small, black
Barrelling bodies stitching the night
With hectic flight. Turning my head
To catch the unsewn moment, right and left
As fast as faith can bear in sanctified
Air.
A ballet perhaps, a modern dance
Made up of wheels, twisting the little light left
And taunting the porchlight with
Lifts, and falling slights – a hunt,
A nightly slaughter on the wing
This massacre of flight
Is.
The longer I stand the more I find
Myself a part of the evening composition,
An essential element of this twilight sonata.
Fading into a dusk, I lean against a post
And recollect a silence as profound
And as busy as it is to be
Human.