Last night I dreamed in colour
At school, they used to show us Pathé films
of the Hindenburg, or Donald Campbell
in the Bluebird, and I would wonder from
how far away it’s sport to stare at death,
or whether they were testing our response
for nascent signals of psychopathy.
I’m still not sure what I was meant to feel
or whether I’ve evolved to greater depth
of understanding in the face of fire
and flash, of farce and fury as we trip
and totter backwards like stoned kids caught in
a bar fight, mesmerised by shards of glass
like milk-rich babies, seeing black and white,
just black and white with gentle shades of grey.
Last night I dreamed of Donald Campbell fast
and brave on Coniston, I saw his face,
I felt his breath, and now, we lift, we lift.
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