‘Figments', a poem

The vacancy, the lack of,

stirs stronger an image than ever

explicit witness could convey.

A jigsaw with the corners and edges

fitted so, to frame the lid promise, unseen;

with reams of sky, grass patches, an ankle

astray in the borders, blanket tassels, stream,

ice cream, long damp hair: easy to stare, easy.

Pour, now, opinions of the missing

evidence in tandem; some educated guesses

to conjure a tableau of captured happenings.

Rinsing the synapses of their broth

is risky in the morning, before routine

occupies the world apparent and near

with deeds and duties, tokens of prayer

for a lifestyle that never comes today.

Primary impulses should be overridden eventually

such that no action disregards the next.

Consigned to horror and derision

are sweet peaches and honey;

but is satisfaction necessary here?

Instead those suggestions run free

as improbable certainties, ever tardy;

as figments of antelopes eloping from dust,

painted stronger in a dream, wilder, than colour

could describe to an eye, and the time flashes by.

The Stanza Room