by Graham Allen

For Roy

There is a rhythm to this

you must accept. 

Something broken

and yet of itself. 

Involuntary action,

a mad shake and pulse

of your hand,

your arm, 

as if your brain was catching music,

some subtle drumbeat

nobody else can hear. 

You are possessed

by something other

than you can fully own,

volatile ghost,

foreign body,

a force that has stolen

your stance,

amused

to transform you,

puppet

with entangled strings,

controlled by clumsy 

fingers.

Still, for all this,

you ride the wave,

abiding,

steering as steady a path

as you can

through the turbulence. 

An old sea lag,

lashed tightly

to the mast,

crying for release

as the sirens sing, 

a traveller,

bent double by his load,

hoping that the lights

ahead are no mirage.