The Golden City
PreludeAll at once, the streets flood into me again, and I recognise their beautiful curves and how they drop into the distances. But I also recognise a ghost version of myself, tip-toeing through the same streets, and the loss of the time twangs with an acute jolt.
I cannot escape the reality of the life outside of these walls. Nor the truth that I have not yet faced my reckoning. One building in particular flashes back a sadly distant past, and it draws a direct comparison with the now, and it exaggerates the immense space between those two things.
Finale of dreamsSuddenly into Gold Weight. Early flight. Brittle silvery time, Europe becoming real, perhaps the last ever one. The airborne reminisce. Tinny fever.
Minutes slip back because they are fragile and unfixed. The moments of the unreal day, of the just-before day, of the night into dawn. Alien power-plants are the surround. Slumbering seafront. Finale of dreams into burgeoning morn.
In the plane there is almost silence. A non-sound mixed with murmurs, counterfeit space. Sunlight edge. Perceptible crackles of almost voices from transmissions unseen. Spotify hymns furnish the heavenly cabin.
© Copyright 2022 John Maher