Lost At The Fair

Help, my mother is lost
among the swarm clatter, the organ-grind blinks
of bits of rainbow bulbs broken and fizzed,
among drunk'd hens that stagger and jeer,
eye-ink bleeding a blind calamity.

Help, my mother is lost here.
Have you seen her?
A blur of hope and Sunday mornings,
of school-gate joy,
of catch-your-death scarf,
of Christmas,
of always-there.

Gone.

The ghost-train man grabs me.
His ride hurls a threnody over the sea,
seeking the place where my tiny hand was last gripped
and released, to fall away
like rain's attenuating clatter,
into melted drains.

"Mummy! I want my mummy!"

A spider's harp sings "Help me!"

Where is she?

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.