Theatre

Let me tell you ‘bout the day I died. 

My chest bloomed to a red rose while I slept, 

and breath, I found, was not a human right. 

White light wiped the etch-a-sketch 

of memory, and just a palimpsest was left, 

images that, even now, I don’t believe. 

Who were these sad-eyed creatures 

with their silent speech?

Why did their fingers dance with the beat 

and drift away on unseen melodies? 

In all that time I couldn’t follow how they moved, 

or even which was which. 

I was standing in a roomful of colour 

and its strands wove stories round me. 

I told myself that I was dreaming 

and the sad-eyed creatures all agreed. 

There is no waking from a dream in colour, 

and no sleeping in a web of light.

Carry me out into the storm. 

I want to feel the lash of rain 

and the jolt of the wind. 

Stand me where the glass is broken 

and the light comes down to me in rainbows. 

This is where my memories begin.