I’ve given up waiting for Peter,
Some things just never pan out.
I set my sights a little lower
out across the Victoriana
blue smoke wends its way
amongst the clay and rusted iron.
Shadows of fable gather to cloud
my aspirations with a dust of entropy.
From here, the sky looks
dark. The way to morning a long
time off as destiny ticks
closer with gently smiling jaws.
Chant caught, I am pinned,
an ambered insect in
a knot of treacled stasis.
Outside the machineries of desire
mesh with perfect precision,
grinding increasing small.
But I am no grist, merely
a cyst of vacancy in the arms of time.
Once fired, these feet of clay
have become stilled, losing
ambition as direction fled.
I find myself rudderless and stranded
On the isthmus of a broken hourglass,
hoping for sail on grey horizon
While life passes by,
straight on till mourning.