Moving On

We made a space for ourselves:
a meeting place for when we wanted

to be spies, a place between pages
and, maybe one time, a fairy tale castle at night,

whatever it was, it would always be
a den of abstract purpose

filled with conversations in corners,
colours and a compost of thoughts;

so we made signs and built an entrance
watched over by a dragon spirit;

do you remember how our ideas surged through pipes
and forced apart peeling paint to reveal

a wild storage of infinite utility?
All those thoughts seeping between objects and reasons?

It was inevitable that we would become
taller than that rusty metal roof,

so we stopped going there - anyway,
our legs had become too long and we’d forgotten who

had brought all the speculations
and the supplies that we ate and drank

while we made everything up:
excitement mixed with busy hands.

Moving On

Now, though, we sometimes pass a memory of it
on the way to somewhere else

and wonder at all the windows we looked through
never seeing this future,

never thinking that one day a space could move us to change.