Gaze out the Glass

Gaze at the glass,
where tiny pregnant shapes
run silver downwards
run down and
stop
and
creep and touch
and flurry down the wetside of the pane
which is just misty where we breathe
where we are safe and dry.
Watching.

Gaze at the glass
those coloured images we see
moving about within a glowing bowl
making their dramas
responding to our desire
they cannot hurt us and
though they seem to bleed
it will not stain our carpet or our sleeve.
Gaze on.

Gaze at the glass.
That whirling world
writhing grey ribbon road
twin turning wheels of blurred-out land
that’s there for us to run through
this crowd of mad machines
dealing in distances
Gaze out the glass

And may it never shatter in our face.




(c) Richard Lawson
Congresbury 15.2.06