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Hung On A Thin Thread
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White Hinterland
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1
Come along in my mackinaw
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I'll point you where you need to go
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Though our path may bend and yaw
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You won't get lost
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With my pointed prow and square stern
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We'll use our arms for oars
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To spoor little schools of fish
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Make festoon-shaped grooves in the fickle waves
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'Til the howling wind ushers us to leave
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Out at sea for days
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I sleep most afternoons away
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And you anxiously compass us
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'Til we see land
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But the land we knew
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Was now a new landscape
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And the howling wind ushered us to leave
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But you wanted a closer look
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Then gripped to the rail, how our cheeks turned pale
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To see the flying machines near clip the houses
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And throw kisses to the sandbar
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Little tendrils of smoke trailing out of the exhaust
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In parabolic wakes, swooping low like gulls
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Causing the town to tremor and to shake
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It was clear that city was nothing
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But an aluminium piece of junk
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Oh, and the howling wind ushered us to leave
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But we couldn't move we stood forever changed
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When something ends, something has to begin
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When the filaments of fiber
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From their flares caught afire
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Your hair looked like spark on a wire
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I would have paid my last dollar
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To see you lambent like that
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Lit by the light of ten thousand shackled suns
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Being hung on a thin thread
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Sift amongst the debris for half-hearted dreams
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Remnants of pocket change
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Pretty, frilly, thrown-away things
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Gauze and dust and shards of glass
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Bricks and bended straws and greyhounds' teeth
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And the howling wind ushered us to leave
White Hinterland - Icarus
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