On a single trip through the Orwell Tunnel
You wake to whiskers touching your cheeks.
Snow is falling on the
Abalone drum basin,
Melting on your heart shaped cymbal.
We all tap our feet
And those girls in the room–
born with glitter in their veins–
begin to dance.
It is subtle at first, just a timed sway in the hips
As if by a spell, the crowd parts for them.
We watch them spin with long arms,
And surprising precision.
Touch each other as they waltz,
One hand alight on her shoulder
The left on her waist.
The drum basin stills–
We watch them bow.
Feel the heat in their eyes.
The Orwell Tunnel will not be lost!
Only neglect can force a stone entrance.
It is the secret passage where cats
slip into snow, magic and mice.
Where conspiracy meets insanity
Where an author’s acute knowledge of
the retched understands the stench of humanity.
Where a bygone romance folds down its sheets,
Welcomes you to a bed made of silk.
It’s 1945 and the war is over.
Might she ever know her words live on without her?
That they built a labyrinth of infinite creativity?
You draw the canopy, the cats curl up,
And time cannot catch you.