twisted

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from powerful emotion recollected in tranquility.

William Wordsworth

 

There are ancient sounds

In my mind...

     Chattering tracks, carrying

     Cream, green trains

     With matte black roofs,

     Clattering diesels

     Pulling tall red buses

     From queue to queue,

     Groaning motors

     Above the clouds, 

     Chittering sparrows,

     English tones,

     The quiet, soft lawns

     Of winter green...    

Collected before

My dreams were grasped

By the force

Of authority,

In whose bony fingers

Was my head

Twisted toward

My future,

And in my ear

Admonishments,

     Be of use

     For this is reality,

Flat, gray, and silent

As the far goalposts

In that October

Schoolyard

Where I first sensed

My destiny...

Leaving me behind.