with nothing but a vague idea of escape,
the clothes we stood up in,
an old bandanna full of pebbled rune stones
and enough electric-energy
surging through our exhilarated veins
to hopefully see the enterprise through.
Food and water, snatched on the trot,
as The High Priestess’s tail feathers
swooped and owl-half-circled above us.
We made strangers of lamplights,
main drags and raised surfaces.
Alternating athlete, ballerina and statue…
fluidly, instinctively and almost shapeshifter like.
With no blades or bowstrings,
we sailed through the half-penny evening breeze.
Adrenalin’s the most magic of potions
when you’ve finally flee-d
your back from the fighting wall.
We circumferenced the uncurious
without once disturbing their pondering dust.
Reaching The River boundary
by The Witching Hour,
as The Watchmen changed grinding shifts.
between the drunken fornicators
and badger-tunnelled our way
far from The Llansamlet Hamlet
which was prison-keeping our precious time.