Sean Elliott
The Escape
The windows face a rundown central square,
squat snow-clouds and the bookshops, hours alone,
his body slants across a littered stair:
‘I’m looking for a children’s book, unknown
to bibliophiles.’ He looks half childish now,
dining on cheese and grapes, a cheap red wine
to keep the winter off. He does not know
the tanks are near, ignores the grand design
changing the colours on an out-sized map.
An epigram defeats his enemies,
rehearsed but fresh, the perfect verbal slap
across time’s face. The dust still makes him sneeze.
He has an article to finish, sure
to put an academic in his place,
exposing foggy thinking with the pure
light of a clear style. Suddenly all space
turns snarling on its tail. A gentleman
is calling and his eyes hide other eyes:
‘Who are you sir to make me drop my pen?’
‘The soldiers are so close, I have my spies,
you are not safe.’ That steady smile, a mite
apologetic, the buzz of flies, reveal
a calmness close to absence. So, in spite:
‘I need no help.’ ‘Let me explain the deal...’
Early next morning comes the doorframe’s crash,
the notes are checked, a shrug, a backward look.
Two crows fly past a chimney belching ash,
the snow hills open like a children’s book.
squat snow-clouds and the bookshops, hours alone,
his body slants across a littered stair:
‘I’m looking for a children’s book, unknown
to bibliophiles.’ He looks half childish now,
dining on cheese and grapes, a cheap red wine
to keep the winter off. He does not know
the tanks are near, ignores the grand design
changing the colours on an out-sized map.
An epigram defeats his enemies,
rehearsed but fresh, the perfect verbal slap
across time’s face. The dust still makes him sneeze.
He has an article to finish, sure
to put an academic in his place,
exposing foggy thinking with the pure
light of a clear style. Suddenly all space
turns snarling on its tail. A gentleman
is calling and his eyes hide other eyes:
‘Who are you sir to make me drop my pen?’
‘The soldiers are so close, I have my spies,
you are not safe.’ That steady smile, a mite
apologetic, the buzz of flies, reveal
a calmness close to absence. So, in spite:
‘I need no help.’ ‘Let me explain the deal...’
Early next morning comes the doorframe’s crash,
the notes are checked, a shrug, a backward look.
Two crows fly past a chimney belching ash,
the snow hills open like a children’s book.
Page(s) 23
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