It passes quietly in velvet slippers,
this season of hollow oracles.
You walk the rain-glossed streets by night,
away from lights and the bright melee –
crowds with eyes like imploded stars.
None of them smiled.
Your footsteps echo on stone slabs,
desperate for distance, forgetfulness
and shadows cringe in colonic alleys,
shudder in brooding incubation.
I want to help, and dart my hand –
try to catch a flame of reason, flickering and blue,
it passes through without feeling
and I know it’s me that’s losing reason.
The dove you find, dead come morning,
is speaking with its glazed eye.
It fell to your doorstep in frozen dew –
a veil hanging around your home –
a house like a tomb of eroding names.
Wake, wake, the dream is over, and all the needly fingers gone.
See where the missing curtain hook
admits a ray – a lifeline of new possibility.
© Caroline Fox Betts 2010