I didn’t care where the shooting stars fell
as I watched them travel the night sky,
jet packed, pre-historic revolutionary travellers
falling to ground in chunks, bombarding the Earth,
causing small dimples to pock-mark the scared green land,
for all I cared about was the dimples in your cheeks
as they rose higher and turned sacred red
as you watched in girlish anticipation
for another to wish your life upon.
We lay atop the roof of your Volkswagan, your baby,
yellow crusted, old cans and bottles rattling
against the engine, making it go faster through the
Oxfordshire countryside as we outran the past
for a couple of desperate hours and as the specks of dust
lit up the night sky, blazing fireballs the size of marbles,
Time was everywhere, yet the future had already been written
as much as the past had been glossed over
and the hands we held as we watched the marbles burn
were our own.
Ian D. Hall 2015.