thrust into outer space
and hanging on for life
with sheer tenacity.
Each had their hacienda
cook pots and cutlery
some bulging boxes
of those precious photographs,
and tolerance of habits
which would normally annoy.
All packaged with great care
and wrapped inside a picket fence.
A casual glance would judge
routine, in autopilot mode.
Then Priappollus struck,
his heavy hand pulled hard
to stretch the bow of emu hide
and fire in midflight, his arrow,
his largest and most polished,
it penetrated air by slicing molecules,
dropping their pieces from the sky
like silly insects singed by
fires of Prometheus, who could part
the clouds and send his sizzling rays
to powder granite and to boil the sea.
He was, as many found to their chagrin
a son to the great God of The Eternal Flame,
born to a barren mother, chosen to be wild.
He spared the huts and barely burned the tips
of the entire picket fence, converting them
into a flock of docile sticks, which, still erect,
had grasped the meaning of the winds of change.
All else was left in place, and time resumed
its rather useless and relentless march of greed,
the river flows, one hears the pounding sea
but there is trouble now in Eden, yes, indeed.
Words hardly used are flung at others and oneself,
from ‘just emotions’ over ‘rationale for what’,
the stone stands proud and flaunts philosophy for all
though it is clear that it will need a mason’s skill.
Has all been torn like useless stuffing from a bra,
do we upend what has been dear and kept the peace?
What claws of selfishness can wipe a summer’s pain
to plunge headfirst into the bush, is it insane?
Gluteal parts have been much pinched, there might be clots
no answers came albeit their calls disturbed the night,
they met clandestinely each with forget-me-nots,
and in the morning they said Yes! And they were right.