A trip, a sip
Hazed and crazed
Bright misty rings – glassy, glazed
The shadow of her shirks my trail
She’s been, she’s seen
The stars.

To Venus, north, the Old Port beats
Out milky waves, wood clusters sweet.
While ghostly bottles chink in time
She travels further, hunted eyes
Seek fragile pleasures etched upon
The orbs of steamed-up windows.

Snaking northwards, junctions sealed,
Castles forbidden, branches revealed
She searches for the holy pool
That heals the wounds of wars at home.
Her script rolled tightly, five leaves left
A princess of pink rainy skies.

Journeying on, her mislaid sighs
Form songs – a map to smiles on high.
She would not die like Socrates
With cello songs – her days aren’t done
One step ahead, a mocking glimpse
Of longing back down cut silk tracks.

Bear this in mind, I’m deaf, I’m blind
And glory’s name has screened me.
So tell your stories to the wind –
With crimson eyes and Plato’s fuss
You’ll never know the mind behind
This journey to the stars.

Jo Matthews

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