The Island (Poetry)

A moment saved in childhood’s bed —
that small wood boat that rocked
me through long nights alone.
Morning the quiet island — uninhabited
by anything except the call of birds
and a covering of white cloud
the sudden rush of a distant train transformed
to a lion’s imagined roar fading — gone.

There is no breeze — nearby trees wait with me
to be disturbed — have this reverie
broken by interlopers with no regard
for boundaries — they trespass without conscience
trash the quality of silence — wreck such peace.

I hear them coming — landing somewhere
on the far shore of perception
and throw up a high thought-barrier — deny them
access to the private land I guard
aware I well might be among
endangered species — an odd one out.

Nearer now — the clump of feet
upon a stair — the laboured puff
and that so-hated triumphant shout
“Time to rise and shine!” that ruined everything —
all promise withered as the day
bristled tight with tension — threatened rain.

Gradually the island shrank away
beneath a flood of years — uncharted
unexplored — not even named.