Seven seasons in seven days
A child grows to hulking man,
As abed I bathe in opiated waves
Remote control in hand.
Bad becomes good when pressed
Into a wine and wafer of time
That slips in easily between breaths
And the ding, ding of the wind chime.
Perhaps from Becoming I am divorced
And arrive in the land of tir na nOg
On the golden saddle of a silver horse.
I gaze back at a sea lapped in fog.
Dim are the dying faces
The changing channel erases.