Somewhere, over there

Somewhere, over there

On the other side of the mirror

Between reflection and refraction,

An aged woman sits

Dressed in black

Asleep, in a high-backed chair,

Dreaming of mountains Edelweiss and children

She would never call her own.

There is discord,

There are so many just like her

In the old world

Where the past lies rotting in the corner

A jumble of miss-read meanings

As dissolute as a leather-bound book,

Disassembled, in the debris of a public library,

A fallen empire of old souls

The philosophy of a golden age

Come to pass,

A sorry end to progress

The smell of decay as solid as a layer of aspic

On a plate of arsenic and old lace

Served on a gilded tray

Set at the feet of the nearly dead

With or without prejudice.

Harsher truths are hidden

Within a sweetly flavoured narrative

Though it tends to scratch and irritate

The delicate membranes of the throat.

Misspent youth has grown fat

On the pain of its own suffering,

In the laughter of scruffy children

Rummaging through the rubble

In search of a daydream

There is still a faint escape of hopefulness,

It curls up like smoke into the grey

A signal, a call to arms.

Listen to the drum beats

There might yet

Be time to save them all

If only there was access through the mirror

Without being caught up

On the wrong side of a story.

Seeking a way out

Before the epilogue

When the National Anthem plays

As the last man standing

Fails to beat a retreat.

It is only to be expected

When even the best-laid plans

Have been corrupted

And the last remaining silver backs

Are nickel-plated

Facsimiles

Waiting to be deported

Far Far away

To the other side of dreamland

Where people still believe in fairy tales

And old ladies are relieved

To still be received as very kindly grandmas

With a pocketful of candy.