Your head hangs low as you sit up in bed.
It’s blustery and you have to wade
through mulch just to get to the door.
On the street now, every eye is averted, or oblivious,
to the cold grey fish casting you in it’s shadow.
The bottle clinks on the rocky shore,
holding you in its belly of slime.
You do not look up. Are you afraid
of what you might see?
Your thoughts have been scrambled,
pasted in the wrong place, a child’s first art project.
Begin the endless wait, with it’s sluggish pace,
until the wave hits, and you are lost in the depths.
Who bolted the window that has you trapped? The moon
is small, heavy
and eventually day breaks: cloudy,
a weight in your arms.
Who is watching you perform? Can they see the spectre
over your shoulder, the eyes at the trapdoor?
Remake yourself, a new outline,
copy your shadow but not your Self.
There’s miles to go -a hill to climb,
a cave to brave,
but know this:
whether you return or arrive,
you’ll find what you were looking for
with it’s glow and it’s light
and you will be warm
modelled after The Red Tree by Shaun Tan.