The Wheel in the Cave

The plague year ended

and our winter was hard.

Spring was out there somewhere

but refused to show her face.

We sat beside a fire

in the mouth of the cave;

the distant churn of sea wrack

whispered all around.

By day we scavenged the coastline

for shells and gold and crabs;

the fire’s misleading shadows

flittered across the wall.

You said: ‘A year of three seasons

is like a proposal from a one-eyed rat’

and sat transfixed by illusion

wearing your old cloche hat.

The wheel came to me in a dream -

a message from far beyond.

It chased me down a chalky scarp

as a ghost ship fired its gun.

When spring arrived a madman came

singing a forgotten song.

He ate our food, drank our milk

like a frog croaking in a swamp.

‘How pitiful you are’ he said

‘Reality is an instrument of lies

created by the devil’s dead-beat sons

for their children who will never grow wise.’

We left the cave soon after

with our beds tied to our backs

searched high and low in barley fields

for salvation’s narrow path.

You pledged your love to another.

We embraced on hangman’s hill.

The cave is dark and flooded now.

The wheel, it chases me still.