Inmates
In the shade of sycamore and ash
we made our encampment
of snow white beds. Below us,
the last frail nipples
of mushrooms, clover
and dandelion heads. Across
the windy spaces, skeins of thistledown
rose, swirled, idled. We
were no more than a hedge, a hut
or a wall: the seeds brushed us
and passed on their way. September
saw swifts like black scimitars
curving through the air, veering
towards the next instant of flight.
And this month? A powdered web
of thinnest rain, layered skirts
of sycamore seeds, ready for the off.
Soon, there’ll be nothing
to stop us; with the first chill
of winter, we too will take flight –
down or up – into earth or air.
But like the human shells that twist
and turn at Pompeii,
those iron bedsteads will be left
curled around our absence.
Tom Pow
from Dear Alice: narratives of madness (Salt, 2008)
Poem supplied courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library
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