As though picking up
on the wind and sky’s murk
verging on menace,
river flowing – like fear inflamed
or alarm, agitated sheep –
the little girl in shorts and her father
scurry, hurry through the green,
a picnic startled to a close.
And there, by the shore, caught in a tree,
dangling, darting to and fro –
a pink balloon
lost in a crowd
of hissing anonymity.
Bobbing balloon
calls to mind self-centredness
coupled with restlessness,
the “me” telling itself many stories
of what it deserves, does not deserve,
of possessions, accomplishment,
stories of self-importance,
even resentment or grief almost
a kind of comfort, consolation
in the face of what it fears to face –
forces it doesn’t understand,
forces steeped in uncertainty,
aliens to all its dreams,
the dream popping at any time.
Be First to Comment