When the partying’s done
set free the balloons. Hope for a breezy day,
feel the tug, all colour singing, stretching light.
The relentless pull and the sliding away.
Let them go and take the summer with them.
The not-knowing, the hoping
it might be possible to soar above grey,
lose colour, lose the self.
At some point the shrinking must begin.
What if the spiral is downwards
and what it holds has no substance at all?
How would you know
when you’d reached the end?
24 August 2015