Panic
You sit on the bus
seemingly sane,
but your veins fizz
with fear
limbs feel as if
they will
just float away.
You try to concentrate
on the conversation
between the young ones
in front of you,
but your brain
a scratched record,
jumps and jitters
jitters and jumps
playing a wrong screechy song.
You breathe in
the dirty germs
of others, their
worry, their sorrow.
You breathe out
despair, distress, dread.
They carry on talking
and laughing and looking
at their phones as if
everything is fine
but can they not hear your heart?
A drum out of rhythm
ready to burst.
Mount Brandon
Warm July rain falls
in vertical stripes.
The band begins:
loud drumming on the beeches,
regular beats on the bracken,
soft taps on the foxgloves
which droop and drip.
Cups of morning glory
fill and brim.
I wave a bracken frond
to ward off horse flies
hungry for blood.
A cloak of cloud on top,
wild wind, no view.
I am just an instrument
of the weather:
a punk band who
bashes out a crude tune.
Flight of the dragonfly 