Unfinished Poem by Brian Taylor

A face half in shadow
in the gallery;
sudden silence
among the guests,
candlelit at the long table below.

Girls
serving sherbet
in the caravanserai.
Before the whirlwind
in the sandstorm's eye
tears up the desert.

A severed head
and the black mask of the executioner
on Tower Hill.

Broken masts and torn sails
sliding
beneath the waves
and sailors crying,
"Christ have mercy on me! "
until their lungs fill with sea.

A pewter plate
on a thin chain let down
from a barred window
above the city gate.
Swinging,
to and fro,
like tomorrow's pendulum.

Imprints
in the mind
from this lifetime or that
or something altogether earlier;
pressing against
the edges of consciousness
like a dream,
that is - but is not what it seems,
seeking its quietus.

Shadows following footprints,
looking to be reunited
with last year's feet.