Splits

by John Smallshaw
(London, England)

Distracted by refracted light
reflected back in spite of all that stands between
the prism and the clear blue screen
that coats my eyes.

Underneath the forest skies where sight lines split
and bits of colour splash into the white of splintered bark
trees aspire to be much more than rooted to the woodland floor.

Who but Frankenstein could build his dream
above the scream of spires and steepled people?
Swept clean and brushed away
the horror of a yesterday.

Within the spiral trapped inside the twist
where love was kissed and walked away
the folly of a yesterday.

I lay me down to weep
in nightmare sleep
I keep my yesterday.