Escapes

The sky in my mind escapes

and overlays itself

onto the breezy sky

of a spring day.

It has become a grey-black, mind sky,

and the neighbours are not amused.

Where did that come from?

their faces say in unison,

as they turn in all directions.

It could be mistaken

as a depression metaphor,

so I think of a tropical sunset,

all oranges and reds, with silhouettes of palm trees

and a flock of awkwardly flying flamingos –

because who can picture an accurately flying,

silhouetted flamingo,

let alone a whole flock of them?

Like so many things, this, too, escapes my mind,

hiding the grey black.

I laugh at the incongruity of my tropical, evening sky

on the edge of a British city in April,

at two o’clock in the afternoon.

The graceless flamingos captivate the neighbours,

and I silently recite a poem about conversations.

The spring sky returns,

and all the neighbours start talking at once.

I retreat to the quiet of my house,

and think of a clear night sky.

When I awake,

the Milky Way is on the ceiling,

on the walls,

on the floor.

I sit in my rocking chair on the outer spiral:

silent, still, invisible;

more impossibly out of proportion

than I have ever been.