By David Hitchings
I dreamt of stars, of cygnets born,
Of aged poems their beauty torn,
Of painted wings on birds of prey
They danced above the hill we lay.
But vicarious dreams of Sagittarius themes
Make various seams in precarious regimes.
Thread together by the delusional creator,
The needle, the thread, the patchwork painter,
The dream crafter, the catcher here-after.
The empty cobbled streets with their harrowing laughter.
The hallowed, the bygone, the unsung, the singing,
The hung, the drawn, the slaughtered left wringing.
The dancer, the mourner, the lover left longing.
The streetwise, the misfit, no sense of belonging.
The vision all skew, no divinity knew,
The mob, the revolvers, the solvers they flew.
In the corner, a darkened chandelier
Like a mourning mother sits.
She hears the sweet release of tears
As the flame beneath her flits.
The music darkens. Hollowed, rotting embraces
As he flaunts his harrowing graces.
He dances to a crooked song,
But death’s song must be sung
The dreams once had, injected with fear,
Now lost, capitulated, they float in the years.
We are the squandered tears left lonely as waves.
The only ones singing are found in their graves.
Photograph: Anna Gibbs