Slow Train to Freedom

Have you ever had the feeling, late one night,

that you're pounding down an ever-narrowing path

without the strength to either flee or fight?

 

Your feet touch with fear this wanton, ferocious earth,

but the stars reflected in your teal-blue eyes

are the brazier-fires of a homeless hearth.

 

Then a slow train, velvet-clad under coated skies,

passes by, cool as winter, from the furnace fury;

so you run down the dawn, watch in awe, as your darkness flies.

 

You are a sceptic, you are an iconoclast, the jury

has returned its verdict, its eyes downcast.

Where to from here, heretic: your eyes a little bleary?

 

Are you one of those who will not see? A trumpet blast

might sieze you from your danse macabre;

but how to build from the past what you will not outlast?

 

Perhaps you seek a fast train to Paradise; want my imprimatur?

No deal: find your own salvation,

uncover your own blinded light, its behaviour less than proper ….

 

Listen. To be a free man is to live a lie (your reputation

precedes you). Tell me, pray, where this Freedom is to be found,

and I will show you a pliant sorcerer, frozen in procrastination.

 

When hunters gather to the killing tree, remember the ground

on which they stand: firm as the first of ten thousand steps,

shaky as the oldest confidence unwound.

 

Chris Hubbard

Perth, Australia

2017