Tuesday, 3 September 2013

He wanted to be like William Blake

The sun breaks past the grey clouds
In Daylesford where he has escaped to
for a few days, broke,
hung-over, drugs slowly leaving like the last snails
after a night’s rain. Beside the lake sunlight
and liquid movement create
a shimmering - a million jewelled insects
fan their wings upon the water.

On the return train-trip, jotting
in his notebook, the new pen
scratching pleasures, catching
old fleas that fall
as words onto the paper. The train’s movement
and the reflection in the dirty glass
bring dislocation. He is conscious
of the girl across from him
who watches as he writes.

As the fields surrender to duplicated houses, he reads
his notes, senses the girl leaving the carriage
and feels a fragment of his heart
slip away, like a doe
into the depth of a hunter’s forest.

Wolf and prey both forever doom him.

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