SOMEWHERE


Sun falls like knives and rain like forks,
dissecting colours so bright that their tattered ribbons
shred through wind-tossed streets like bows
tempestuously torn from Belgian chocolate boxes.

Arrows of autumn's storm fly in from Kansas,
sifting the wheat of spa-town skies.

The foghorn voice of a lone Scots busker
sings to empty corners of an abbey square:
"And we'll all go together... among the blooming heather..."

Trimming the sails of her shiny-red shoes, an unsteady old lady
grips her sou'wester and attempts a crossing.
Over The Sea To Skye.

Somewhere, a tiny black-cloud-of-a-dog yelps in excitement.

The reality of Oz speeds its approach
as sparks fly with every click of my heels.
Despite the gale,
a fire is burning in an unfamiliar bush and his voice says
"Will ye go, Lassie, go?"

* * * *

Anything is possible for us lost souls,
for the Scotsman, old lady, cute dog and for me.

Home is, after all, only a gathering wind away.
For the four of us together.
Somewhere.