Elizabeth Bewick
Hallucinations
(for Mr P.C. Gartell)
The lights come on in butcher's shops
where sheets of undressed tripe have lain,
once scraped they can be trimmed like chops
and stewed to tenderness again.
Tarantulas in thousands crawl
below the surface of my skin,
their hairy legs in rise and fall
have penetrated deep within.
Computer clocks that whirr and bleep
still punctuate exploding time,
though ageing bodies lie and weep,
denied a part in pantomime.
The nightmare shifts, the curtains fall
and only half my mind believes –
in spite of dancing at the ball –
behind those curtains there are thieves.
The ceiling drops in squares of light,
pinks, yellows, blues, go swimming round,
lift and descend in crazy flight
to leave their burden on the ground.
The crosses on the path outside
reflect each colour in its turn,
accentuate the thin divide
between the day and death's dark urn.
The scar below St Catherine's Hill
is covered by a mercy cloud,
but diggers in the distance still
shriek their destructive skill aloud.
The dawn, a full–flushed apricot,
bursts through the new–washed eastern gate,
irradiates the ward's deep rot
and sets the record almost straight.
where sheets of undressed tripe have lain,
once scraped they can be trimmed like chops
and stewed to tenderness again.
Tarantulas in thousands crawl
below the surface of my skin,
their hairy legs in rise and fall
have penetrated deep within.
Computer clocks that whirr and bleep
still punctuate exploding time,
though ageing bodies lie and weep,
denied a part in pantomime.
The nightmare shifts, the curtains fall
and only half my mind believes –
in spite of dancing at the ball –
behind those curtains there are thieves.
The ceiling drops in squares of light,
pinks, yellows, blues, go swimming round,
lift and descend in crazy flight
to leave their burden on the ground.
The crosses on the path outside
reflect each colour in its turn,
accentuate the thin divide
between the day and death's dark urn.
The scar below St Catherine's Hill
is covered by a mercy cloud,
but diggers in the distance still
shriek their destructive skill aloud.
The dawn, a full–flushed apricot,
bursts through the new–washed eastern gate,
irradiates the ward's deep rot
and sets the record almost straight.
Page(s) 9
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