Mortley

A poem based on a dream I had

Nude in the depths of a pond called Mortley,
Swam thirty odd people who spread demographics.
The females were healthy, the males were portly,
Escaping the ennui of plasma and traffic.
Escaping collisions of weddings and wakes,
Of parties and dinners and questions of taste.
To pack up and flee was to heighten the stakes,
To sketch all the demons that culture defaced.
Compartmentalised demons that stuck,
To a convenience, contingent on deflecting ipseity.
Soaked in the pond, I was buoyantly struck.
By the thirty odd smiles that glowed with variety.
But the facial expressions conformed in a second,
As the strafing of bullets had them gasping below,
I like to believe, as the blinding light beckoned,
That they felt they’d had sentience tied up in a bow.