The Leap

... and there came a moment when I leaped
and more than one of me fell down, up, out.

One hundred and twenty feet below,
the thousand tourists drift, dandelion seeds,
their careless trail from Stonehenge to Cathedral.

Gravity is warped by skewed mirrors:
things upon things fold in upon in:
it was fortunate I'd been watching Cocteau.

The Gordian knot reties itself,
proof against nervous fingers picking,
the ache in my head cumbrous as mollasses.

Knot it up, reflect it in,
fold it tight as young ferntips,
worlds within words, words within worlds.

The idiot Quixote hooked on the swirling blade,
the ponderous aim of his foolish eye
still endeavouring to lance solidity.

Dizzy mazes of some dishevelled city:
truth always the far side of the alleywall:
cats slink, their eyes gleam like guns,
and that damn cat of Kafka is somewhere near.

But still, the day is not half done.
Lunch beckons, afternoon has better promise.
No need to curse the day til nightfall.