Cassie Lewis – Sentinel

Cassie Lewis

Sentinel

How beautiful the city: like the mind it wanders. Winter gardens walked through like darkness on the map, blotched with loss. (This biro, the sentinel of the world of sleep where pushcarts pass filled with apples green.  The biro knows.  The biro understands.) Soon, hundreds of pigeons will fly to your house whose messages, attached to the foot, read ‘thank you’. (Poems, talk). But first an update: War. I’m tired of that imperative to fight.  Blake’s ‘I shall not cease from mental fight.’                           To find strength to act from the well of my own humour. Something powerful happens when a poem contracts the universe.  To harness light like oil?  Clouds of burning oil mass in the sky. This is Christmas.  Pigeons dust themselves off and fly.  At last I’m home in the goldmine of time with no small thanks to this lovely city and to you.  I once was lost.  And now, such grace, to never mind.

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