All is not Lost

(An exercise in surrealism
for George.)

Each morning I cross a bridge,
pass new spaces to be discovered,
feet remaining firmly on the ground,
belonging as they do,
to the earth.

I try not to look back,
history's pages carry too much weight,
reminiscences of disappointment,
memories of death,
that slipped by casually,
ever so suddenly.

I take things easy nowadays, 
especially the stairs,
but still drink thirstily,
a craving that never subsides.
helps keeps me growing, 
on flights of reality,
wings of transition. 

I have found safety,
places to hideaway,
conceal feelings, lose control,
escape to dreamtime,
play the fool on the hill,
in waiting rooms where I rest,
rainbows arrive to deliver treasure.

As the ink runs dry,
tomorrow never knows,
coming tides of golden slumber,
fill my waking eyes,
and Prometheus walks,
does the rounds,
marks out eternity, 
releases fire and knowledge,
furnishes life with bearable segments.

' All you need is ears',
someone once said,
to lift the spirit, 
allow sighs to decipher,
and if the glass is still half-empty.
fill it up again, each drop sustains,
delicious to taste, quenches tongue,
helps deal with stuff, 
that are difficult to understand,
partially drunk, the world sways,
glimpses of reason, echoing unbound,
take a sip, find some comfort,
realise that all is not lost.