by Aidan Andrew Dun


A restless worm
with skin of blue silk
a thin creature with
a history unravelling
one who is awaiting
transformation any day
lies along the ground
in the field of London.

A chrysalis you say
from a knowledge of nature
one who might sleep
through a season of the dark
in a homespun container
in a green London park
dreamer of future
stained-glass wings.

This is what we say from
the comfort of a window
sealed against
the corrosion of the air
from the leathery bosom
of a London taxi
creeping to the lights
through clouds of sulphur.

But this maggot twists
in a tunnel of nylon
rain-soaked winding-sheet
full of body-odour
dream-wings dusted
by grey scurf of pavements:
somewhere in this shroud
is a living man.