Adjacent aspirations,
felt and not felt,
ebbing in shadows,
numb, still untouched.
Perilous cataclysm, an
ocean of vigour,
passengers across
this lonely sea.
An isle is glimpsed,
orbit of unknowns,
adventure of risk,
treasured citadel.
Many a fog bank,
many an iceberg,
thwarts the dreams
bearing new fruit.
Seekers of pure fire
struggle and contest
the woeful gales
asserting power.
Vain hopes and dreams
may never desist,
constant frustration,
perpetual loss.
Spectre fades from view,
true believers,
bewildered and lost,
clasp the faith.
Have we lost hope
when all we embody
is hate, fear and
carnal images?
Mark Snellgrove
11 July 1996