Alan Weadick


Alan Weadick

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Suddenly, under three quarters

of the moon’s perfect bauble,

I take a notion to go

among the missing.

To just fade out, one day,

from this large, bad picture,

unnoticed amid the clutter

of La-Z-Boy sitting-rooms,

to leave unannounced,

storms threatening, reckonings pending

to wind up where they all,

I am now certain, wind up:

at that rip in the pitch-black mountains,

arrived at by touch, blind man’s buffed,

crowd-surfed across the arms

of a mob of brambles,

led, toe-wise, by the clouded

anti-current’s keeper,

bundled upriver to one source

after another; as far as it takes

for the spell of glowering photographs

in newsagents windows to be broken,

to that place where they will hand out

new souls, clean as pebbles,

and from which, in the fullness

of time, we will clamber back down

in sloppy single file,

our almost but not quite familiar

faces drying in the breeze

and with the light in our eyes

that makes all the difference

go our separate ways

to specialize in odd behaviour

like sitting on shaky perimeter fences

of properties no longer our own,

getting double-takes from new residents,

on their knees shaving grass verges

to within an inch of their lives,

keyed up to resist an invasion.

Alan Weadick

Alan Weadick has had poems most recently published in Cyphers,  the Culture Matters anthology "Cry of the poor", The Stony Thursday Book and upcoming in Blackbox Manifold and Dreich. He lives in Dublin.