Alien

It’s a seed sprouting,

a cold plant, spreading like a misty

forget-me-not.

When the familiar becomes thin, veiled

without colour or substance.
Far-off, disconnected,

as if I had been transported, between

blinks, to a pale Andromedean planet

with unfathomable languages and unrecognisable shapes.

The grass is green, but

not.   The sky is blue, but not.   The sun shines hot

but with a stony face.

Everything orbits a glowing abyss
,
and distant events and places

entwine, beckoning with thin figures, and whispered

warmth.   My brain, imperfect machine,

hears and sees and is

taken in.   But I remember how it was

before the discontinuity.