I slip between lines
scrabbling to hold
falling motes in my eyes,
sparkling silver,
cyan, magenta and yellow
strobing whirligigs,
electrical pulses
warning that something
put aside is lurking
waiting to pounce.

I trawl a khaki swamp
looking for clues,
iridescence plumes,
indigo and emerald
tentacles of memories
rush with corpuscles,
replaying words
and different perceptions,
a sextant for my bearings.

Suddenly caught
in the flap of a curtain
a singular tilt
of the sunlight
draws me to watch
sparkling motes recede,
with relief, I remember
the blonde blue eyed girl
who worried that
tree pruning machines
would cut holes in the sky.

The ground restored,
I laugh with joy
stretching my toes.


2 thoughts on “Slipping

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