One-Eighty

By Peter Austin

Bray of a chainsaw, rambunctious with glee,
Ripping the pulp out of tree after tree;
Felled, like Goliath, they shudder the floor,
Clearing the way to the great oaken door.

Opening, entering, doffing his hat,
Shining a flashlight, on this scene and that:
Moth-eaten tapestry, dust-mantled lute,
Clock that is cobwebby, tarnished and mute.

Picking his way round a slumbering maid,
Draped on a chaise of discoloured brocade;
Gaining the staircase, with purposeful stride,
Lightly ascending, in quest of his bride.

Passing a landing — a second — a third,
Spurred by the beldam’s vaticinal word;
Cries it aloud, to the moldering stone:
“Find her, and kiss her, and call her your own!”

Pictures her waiting —an eon, asleep!
His, to redeem from the morphean deep;
His, to enlighten — the TV, the phone —
Hundreds of wonders, and none of them known!

What will she think, of a Moog-rendered tune?
Microwave ovens? The walk on the moon?
What will she say, when she sees a Skidoo?
Catches a plane, to New York, or Corfu?...

Silent, he stands, in her breath-scented bower,
Stunned by so lovely, so childlike a flower,
Wondering which of his twopenny schemes
Justifies nuking such innocent dreams?

Thinks of corruption, and drunk-driven cars,
Bennies, bad air days, dioxin and SARS;
Thinks of the a-bomb, the secret police;
Does a one-eighty, and leaves her in peace.