Poetry by Maureen Wilkinson

The Blindman Goes From A to B

THE BLINDMAN GOES FROM A TO B is the title poem of my collection published by Peterloo Poets,
a signed copy of which may be PURCHASED HERE...

The Blindman Goes from A to B

My somewhere hands divine absence.
Edge extends as a ley-line,
grows itself by hand-spans into a wall,
which is my half-crutch, and my rolling rail.

Thus I row along.
Night-fly, fast as a roving eye,
with my someplace feet keeping me informed
of their extra-sensory perceptions.
I shuffle on the good-time path, flat as water shine.

I have mortified the strength of my thighs:
still my steps make nimble time.
I tread narrow, narrow as a circus horse, keeping
to the tight-rope twist of correct oblivion, until
my hand-prop shapes away.

Now I am womb-blind, resting on a sky which
cradles me.  My mind’s eye, finger’s mind, spine’s heart
make rapid re-assessments.  At every boundary,
at the skin’s press,
darkness barters with darkness.

This is where space yawns into a sideways.
Leaves milk my hand, their skins as light as
dancing girls.  Sky makes a lagoon, with
the big air-animals stooping to drink.
I can hear the trees reading aloud
from the braille of the clouds.  The text contains
both jokes and melancholy passages.
Branches have switched on their carousels.
They sing in rounds, their wooden horses riding.

Edge!  My feet have put on their fear-brakes.
Something slams by, heavy as cut.
It abducts a vacuum, into which the dead airs
bury themselves.  My senses grow cilia, reaching out
for any suddenness, although roads are a limited danger zone;
twelve paces or twenty.  I count across.  Now, nearing home,
I recite the edges by heart:
a clipped hedge, sorrowing.
My fingers comfort its bereavement.
Thirty-seven noble railings.
Here my garden curls to greet me, its perfumes
surfing on the wind.  The path wears worry lines
so as not to show its love.
My mid-season roses have auras in three colours.
My key completes the eye of the lock.

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