music out of nothing

by Rupert M. Loydell
The shadow seemed to move, but didn't.
What was surprising was that that group
went away together and managed
to get along when here they hardly speak.
Adrift in a sea of footnotes and cross-references,
everything brings back memories of something else.
I wanted to speak my mind, wanted to scream,
but nodded instead, let it go. Yes, I would
like another drink; no, I am not on the wagon
although the steam has gone out of my engine.
I used to write and read, cycle, run and skateboard,
now I am more likely to succumb to television
and the books by my bed are from last year.
Can we be sure of anything? I'd like to think so
but the sacredness of questioning always intervenes.
How is it that now there is nothing more than words
the eternal is all around? If you peer through
the curtains you can see it outside. We are not
needed now but at least the rain has stopped.
Conspiracy theorists always blame somebody else,
it is easier and simpler that way. This is pop
and we can make music out of nothing.
It feels like we are at the end of a journey
but we've only just left home. 'Are we there yet?'
'No, sit still and be quiet.' Today has been long
and fraught. Look into the distance and
try to find the outline of promises and aspiration
as tables of green fields lead the eye away
into summer confusion. At the moment
wind and rain and tide conspire to flood the valley.
This is what the world was then but I am only human,
have run out of wonder, am dancing on the edge
of where I am probably not meant to be.