CAROUSEL

                                                                                                                       

When you contemplate ending it all – where do you see yourself?

Away on a rock with sea rising and the wind tugging at your clothes, sucking you over that edge?

Or perhaps you are sidling into a mirror lake, cold as fingers, slippery as phlegm, to slide from view - to gasp and heave to nought?

Or looking down the long, so long tracks, to that vanishing point, as a bright one-eyed mutant bears down blaring?

Or quietly in the bathroom, the door locked, the water brimming, the razor kind on the shroud white towel?

Or perhaps in the kitchen, the small bottle hard clicked open, the contents scoffed in fistfuls?

Or – I know - in your garage, with water on the floor and a screwdriver in the plug socket?

When you conjure a scenario to do yourself in – when do you see it?

At a brisk dawn, stretching and yawning to meet you half way?

Or as a lobster broiled in the heat of the sun at the noon of the day?

Or at the night’s gate where you fade together into the softest bed of dark?

Enough.

Enough.

All is sweetness now I hear your voice again.

Clear, and the lark is rising, the moon held still in her arc in blue.

The children are fed and abroad.

The river is deep but steady.

The fish are hiding.

Bring me a flower from the garden and I shall rest a while.

Colin Morgan