How to leave the world that worships should

Let faxes butter-curl on dusty shelves.

Let junkmail build its castles in the hush

of other people’s halls. Let deadlines burst

and flash like glorious fireworks somewhere else.

As hours go softly by, let others curse

the roads where distant drivers queue like sheep.

Let e-mails fly like panicked, tiny birds.

Let phones, unanswered, ring themselves to sleep.

Above, the sky unrolls its telegram,

immense and wordless, simply understood:

you’ve made your mark like birdtracks in the sand -

now make the air in your lungs your livelihood.

See how each wave arrives at last to heave

itself upon the beach and vanish. Breathe.

by Ros Barber