There are lasers on the penon
from where I sit, burnt, burning
through Douglas Adams. Some sort
of sign sought from kids in the pool,
or drunks on the boardwalk. Emerald green
against a brilliant Jade, marking space
between the rocks. And all I can do is hope
the wildcats don’t chase lasers like their
domestic counterparts, and reminisce
of my own cats, back at home. Where does
your mind travel to, when you’re far from
the comfort of your own bed?
– Aaron Kent
Perhaps I am a bird. Let’s say a sparrow.
I dive down a chimney or spurt
through a tall open window
circle round Italian galleries
mistaking the art for real landscapes.
Or perhaps I am a fish. Let’s say a carp.
I allow Danube’s waters to love through me,
conscious of little but survival.
I flick my tail fin and feel its power,
as I glitter in my chain mail.
I am a bee entering the tunnel of a foxglove,
burrowing into air turned pink and freckled.
I bathe in seas of lavender, my fur sticky
with pollen, prepare for the coming cold,
the winter clustering.
A bird again, this time a swallow
I fly high across continents
guided by magnetism or some other
dark force I have to follow,
my companions around me.
I am higher than tall towers;
deeper than oceans; lost
in the music of the spheres;
rooted in the secrets of the earth.
I am alive, in all my senses.
– Angela Topping