Just Passing Through (Poetry)

The time is any time — the place is anywhere —
this floating-bubble-life of years contained —
                the world perceived through thin transparencies
of concave walls — those shapes and colours passing by
fading into dark — and all the while
a sense of distance from that landscape —
the journey done without direction or the need
to touch the scenery or dwell — suspended
on a cloud of thought and hesitating —
caught in an updraft for a moment —
haunted by the half-familiar shadow —
before the breeze draws us onwards —
chivvies, bullies, bounces us along —
rudderless and vague with hope — this flight
from somewhere lost
                into oblivion....