I see them.

Wherever I go.

Squashed painted suns

With yellow garish glow.

In time-

They transfigure

To a multitude of moons.

Parachutes with anchors

Emerge from silent tombs.

Flight is-

A fleeting pleasure

When it’s pitched against the breeze.

But gravity exerts

and in that moment –

it is seized.

And each seed – a tiny barb

It pierces;

For I see-

The unknown laws I’m subject to

The clock that ticks in me.


By Fiona Lochhead May 17