Beacon

Beacon



Car movement exaggerates the calm outside.
Streaks of light, a still of Brownian Motion,
are jet trails - falling stars in the clear Autumn sky:
From here they are going nowhere,
yet they rip silk sky like tailors' quick-unpicks,
and see the earth-bound as stationary, if they see us at all.

Dawn releases a giant orange spider between the trees.
It's long legs hug the branches and give them life.
The amber glow from its body warms the ground mist,
seeps across the road, and tenderly touches the hedgerows.
Leaves respond by glowing back yellow and orange
and red and green and purple and brown and gold.

I leave Nature to wake and enter an artificial world.
I travel the tarmac stream in the flow of traffic,
which swells rapidly as metal tributaries surge from
town and country, until the channel is engorged,
and the deluge comes to a jerky standstill
that Nature would never have allowed.

Frustration procures an agitation of horns,
retorting to my provocation.
I beseech unknown gods convey me elsewhere,
closing my eyes to give them opportunity.
When I bear to look, I see the rooftops
slapped with blotches of sun-stuff. Dazzling

rectangular stars on the brink of explosion
throw fire in my eyes, blinding, reminding me
of my reflection saying remain true to yourself.
In that moment I am The Navigator
steering with ease through turbulent water,
guided by the beacon once engulfed by a greedy river.