It came across the gently dancing ears of wheat,
Feather light, yet
Boundless in energy.
He was caught in its wonder,
Like a leaf in a tiny cyclone,
Hoping that Kansas disappeared and he was left in magick’ grasp.
But Kansas didn’t disappear.
It continued to sit where men drew its name and
He stood feeling drowned by
He felt the sun and was sung to by unseen choirs of birds, but
The sun was ice and
The song was bitter remorse.
His Locasta, dressed in lingerie and crooking her finger, was
In her Oz and he, tired of today’s toil,
Felt her lack like an anchor.
Would someday sing their meeting?
Could he press his Sunday suit to wed?
Or like the many days spent
Will they whisper in dreams?
Destined to dance on the decking of lost desire.
He closes his mind and sighs heavily.
‘Tomorrow is a new day,’ he mutters to the dry ground. ‘It may bring my twister.’