Hope moves across the sheet glass of clear minds
like leaf shadows on a speeding windscreen,
only that the trees are left way behind
what’s unfurled and passes is nothing green
some of the leaves are known – olive and fig
the others are faintly ominous, grim
their edges, sharp saw teeth, the stems and sticks
yellow fingered tattoos on the rim
of insight; the endings dawn even before
twilit beginnings can start to coalesce
the harder the panicked foot presses, the more
the shapes rush by in films of shapelessness
maybe it’s not hope, and if the glass flips
it would show the fear in the leaves’ midribs.
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