The stale smell of my personal song
is stuck to the inside of my head.
Beside me, silence parts its lips
and blows a freshening pause.
It lifts me from my track,
expanding my mind like a concertina,
its folds unfolding into compositions
kept secret until this moment.
Each phrase streams reams of knowledge.
I understand everything. Itís not a dream.
Stillness grips the pause. A slip. A stutter.
Emotions gather like anxious passengers.
An inward breath and the folds refold.
I am squeezed into an empty train.
The pull of an engine and I move away.
The window is open and I lean out.
Someone looks out of the final carriage.
I wave at them and they wave back.
I walk through the train to reach that carriage
and its window, still open. Nobody is there.
I lean out to see, in the distance,
someone waving at me and I wave back.
The train stretches my eyes into a stare
and as the concertinaís fading tune
scratches my head, I recognise the face ....
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan Wilson would
be pleased to hear them