I can’t be off the map – these fankled folds
Can’t lie. Promised sights are sirens of stone,
Circled thrice and walked past. Each x-marked place
Waits patient.
There
are no bearings to get,
I can’t read the sky telling West from East,
No sense to be found in these pinstriped streets.
Museums, galleries giggle off-stage
And whisper down flustered lanes; in pursuit.
Stop here.
Nothing is lost, neither am I.
Nothing is lost, neither am I.
The last trace of sunshine drops like sugar
In a steaming paper cup – a beacon
Which slips behind missed monuments, winking.
Looking at several of your poems together really highlights that you've discovered a real gift for shaping the words, so the white space and the 'look' of them poem tells the story too. Great stuff! I love, here, the maze of words, the way they create a convoluted path. I've already shared feedback with your directly on this one, but allow me to add this is a lovely poem and a great revised draft from the original I saw all that time ago x
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