SPINDRIFT

Invisible creatures in flight
hiss by on wet roads;
chill-brush a cheek,
touch damp a sleeve.

Open-ended possibilities,
swift as light, shape-shift,
dispel, disintegrate,
dissolve, and disappear.

II

In a quest for form & meaning a fictitious discourse is
fully extended, gone all out
to meet the demands of your art:
what could be written.

III

The Maiden Racer falters, stumbles - nowhere near the finish - veers left and right; begins to progress, then to regress again; meanders over playing fields and flood plains: infolding, unfolding; twisting, spiralling, looping, turning - back in on herself.

And when passé expectations of order and significance are randomly shot down
by brokenness; and the narrative structure - masked with unimaginative and
unhelpful opacity – is, at last, stripped of all meaning ‘The End’ can’t be far behind.

The story – grown out of and referring to an empty centre, generated by the ever receding object of its quest – was not told this evening, nor will it ever be. Ridden
out after a mile. Conditions unacceptable: going hard, jockey not light enough.