THE HEAVEN OF LOST FUTURES

after Derek Mahon

 

The town arcade is teatime dark.

Along its kerb, dead leaves

wind whipped, are swept to mush.

Naked branches thicken with light –

a star shell burst.

Then another and another.

 

Does falling debris understand

where it may safely land?

The path it follows is least time

least energy,

cares not how fragile shelter is.

Nor how long you’ve glared

 

at shop windows – cursing  

under your breath – their endless choice.

But no blank slate for sale.

The person you wanted to be

is somewhere else,

translating whispers into peace.

 


 xii. 2023