To you it is a blank page; to me it is
a dense fog. I am in the middle of a
traveller’s log but cannot see where
I started from – or an end to where
and what I write; I am not alone, about
me there are unattached words in flight
like bats hunting in the gloom, ghostly
outlines wafting in a wraith-like night,
silhouetted, fleetingly from time to
time against a single, bug-infested
light – a lone and charismatic old
street-lamp situated in a bare place
I don’t recognise, there for no reason
I can discern other than to spur the
precociousness of my mental state.
But I am not in the mood, my head
aches and my thoughts wander out
of frame without warning. This landscape
has nothing familiar for eyes which
only seek a time and place to rest in.
© 7 July 2007, I.D. Carswell
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