Tea Time Before Apocalypse

I am an old man,

Knee deep in useless revelation,

I am an old man,

Betrayed by atrophied intention,

Though my tumble of thoughts

Have aged into obscuring brume

Which thicken once whispering skies,

To a chokehold jumble of blood orange smears

And ash leaden grey,

I hunt for the colors,

That the years wore away,

As I rage for the path,

Through turnstile faith,

And rage for the path,

Of red letter days.

I swim in a sea of grass,

Towards the telling crumb trails

Of yesteryear’s diaries,

That scribbled proud glories,

Enchantments,

And stories,

In spidery scrawl,

That graffiti of buoyant joy

Tattooed to each page,

And inked to each wall.

I hold still my heart,

Through a blizzard of leaves,

As the bruise of the dark,

Deepens it’s reach,

With unwonted relent,

And menacing greed,

To pluck me away,

From the path that I seek,

As the bowing of trees,

Sing hushed melodies,

Under a custard yellow sun,

Born stubborn and free.

I dart for the gates,

Where the lifeblood skies

Are toned rich blue,

To join the dream haze chorus

Of roundabout lazing clouds,

And heaving clusters of starry crowns

That float beyond the bounding spheres,

And skirt the depths of golden years,

Into the carnival frenzy

Of always,

And once upon a time’s

Unfettered youth,

Hungry for purpose,

And starving for truth.

Please dear God,

Let me float up there too.

And through feverish drains

Of sinkhole fears,

The hourglass grains,

Empty their years,

Through furious tide and seething storm,

I’m now a dream

That’s been reborn.

And I remember…

The day you packed a checkered box

Of rube cheap straw,

To have a picnic

In a crude swath of grass,

Beneath the thunderbolt phantoms

Of humming power stations,

Casting nuclear eyes

Towards our wind trembled spot,

The dithering flutter of furies,

Of electrostatic shock,

The vibrating dance,

Of the doomsday clock,

Each terrible tick,

Each terrible tock,

Courting our breath,

And casting our lot.

And I remember…

As the shade of wild heather,

Served us simple refuge and love,

While we ate up oranges,

And sandwiches,

And chocolate cake,

And happy talk.

For it was tea time,

And midsummer calm,

Before the snaking fury,

Before the rain of bombs.

Please pass me your prized lemonade, mum.

It should have won awards,

Or at least have made the news.

“It’s pretty good, but not THAT good, son.”

And after a quick bake,

In this sauna of a sun,

We pack up quick

Before tower eyes,

Tell the future

What we’ve done.

And I remember…

As the shade of wild heather,

Served us simple refuge and love,

While we ate up oranges,

And sandwiches,

And chocolate cake,

And happy talk.

For it was tea time,

And midsummer calm.

But now it is forever,

In my diary,

Soaking sun.