Levitation was never a part of my lifestyle,
but this morning, without due effort,
without an act of will,
I found myself up on the mantlepiece
floating, just like Alice, through the mirror,
parting the malleable glass with my fingers
as though it were a fog
or a skein of silk,
falling apart as I touched it.
"Where have you been?" My puzzled friends chivied.
We were sauntering down Carnaby Street
on a cold mid winter evening,
strolling through crowds of fashionable London girls.
"To the future," I replied.
"I have visited the 21st. Century
where today is just a legend,
The Beatles analogue history,
and this street a commercial byway
packed with histrionic tourists,
and deserted by The Scene."
They looked at me and scoffed,
"Trevor is always full of stories,"
and so we entered the smoke filled pub
heaving with mods and would be actors.
Weekend models looking for an agent.
Con artists by the score.
The chatter degraded into white noise.
Smoke thickened, becoming an opaque glass
through which I drifted blindly, unable to stop the clock.
"The Nineteen Sixties were fine," I whispered to myself.
"Back then we were imaginative and hopeful,
scheming a low tech revolution, a brand new Peacenik age.
A time to love and share, to reaffirm The Levelers, their
self sufficiency.
A time to magic war zones into gardens;
to plant white poppies down the throats of guns.
I stared far into the mirror,
took note of the flaws, the scratches, the film of grubby motes,
the smudges from my fingers.
"Who is that old man looking back at me?
He looks so tired and wistful. Does he have a tale to tell?
Or is this just the trick of a lonesome mind?"
For a second the image was young and wild once more.
It giggled - then puffed a cloud of smoke in my face.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 2rd. - 5th. - Aug 25th. 2016. - February 16th. - 17th. 2021.
For all those friends I can no longer meet.
No comments:
Post a Comment