We dream our dreams, as prophet spoke,
revisit hopes, long unfulfilled,
perhaps poor substitute pretend
was goal, worn soles, sore feet from road.
As volume fades, our numbers grow,
so combined voice is larger now,
except the message more confused –
smiles come with lips from screens with clicks.
Dementia’s rise, uncertain who,
inhibitors depart their post –
while sunbathing it snows again –
frustration fumes, both ends of scale.
The jail, lock-up with coin box,
as crazy as cell-phone could be;
Google could just be coo-chi-coo –
in baby-talk, little to choose.
Old order changeth, yielding new,
yet my site back in Sunday School;
as now they try to bring me here,
I question, whose unsettled fear?
Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by some twenty on-line poetry sites, including Poetry Potion; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines and Vita Brevis Anthology.