Now incorporating The Sudbury Hill Harrow and Wherever End Times

Friday, April 22, 2011


It is the hour of waking alone.
A jet is unzipping the sky.
Boxwood hedges await me
And watch my feet go by.

The pines are hiding their scent
With the privet for tonight.
They hold no interest this morning,
Enervated by so much light.

The dead grocer is still alive,
Surly, serving in the shop,
Henpecked in a biscuit coat
At the parade where buses stop.

Joan Gentle is near me now,
Worth marrying just for the name.
She often gets on the sixteen,
But she is dead just the same.

Two friends linking arms as always
On the path by the flower bed
Will never get to hear about nine eleven,
Aids or crack, because they're dead.

The conductor with nothing to say
Still hears the sister squeal
"That's my brother, that's my brother!"
He too has passed under the wheel.

Maisie of the hotpants is a zombie
In the kiosk selling cigarettes
And I will buy my Senior Service
And inhale without any regrets.

There's where Vicky lives over the shop.
She cuts hair and makes mothers blonde.
They still share tea and drink gossip
Even though they're beyond the beyond.

Their blueprints are filed under gone
Missing, and presumed unknown.
Although we are dead, we're alive -
All in the hour of waking alone.

Stephen Moran
From Last Night's Dream Corrected

(Edited, updated June 2022)

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