"We all have our time machines. Some take us back - they're called memories. Some take us forward - they're called dreams" - J.Irons, A break away, come fly with me, Dot to dot, Happy thoughts of happy smilers, On the beach with Martha and her Muffins, That Then There, What., When Where
Where is love? The billboard asked.
Ensnared, she slowed down, to a gradual still,
Midst the streaming, and teeming of crowds that did mill.
Stiff, sullen shoulders, nudged her, here and there.
She did not feel slighted, she was quite unaware.
Of faces looming, faces leering,
Human bumper cars, caroming and veering.
None perceived by that conscious mind,
She had already departed – for a place that shined.
The surrounding metropolis – a blanket of grey,
Took its ignoble leave, and drifted away.
Bleating traffic was stifled – coarse mutterings muffled,
And the unseen populace, oblivious, it shuffled.
The stale London air, was around her no more,
As now she stood blinking, on a far distant shore.
Where the water it shimmered, through words and soft phrases,
And the warm sand stretched on, for pages, and pages.
For laughter imparted, so long, long ago,
Can be found, on a beach, as a castaway cargo.
No warmth is diminished, the fire it still burns,
And we all have our beaches, perchance to return.
Now she’s back in the city, and onwards she goes,
But her heart’s on a beach, where the prose – it just glows.