Going out on a Sunday (a poem)

A bizarre little dream from last night.

It dropped from the sky
and slid along the empty road
like a silo
filled with blue, blue, and nothing but blue
inside and out
a surplus angel

When the flash crept into my peripheral vision
I dropped to the grass
closed my eyes
and waited for the wave

It was slow in coming
as though the two blocks
were continents
and there were oceans to cross

I felt a slight motion
every molecule shifting
a centimetre to the left

And then it was morning

(31 March 2019)


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