Uncle H At Knossos
I have dreamt all the best poems, never written
them down, except the odd line scrawled
on the walls of the labyrinth.
Never the chance, met most days by the sound
of builders and labourers busying
themselves with bricks and mortar, as the wall
is raised ever higher, until thoughts
of escape return once again to thoughts
of enclosure. This is my world
of sensory deprivation. Walls and parapets.
Parapets and walls. Where touching hurts.
Touch is alien. Yet it is touch alone that counts.
And the poem written is like Daedalus
regretting the decision to fly.