Today, our nondescript routine inspires
warmth-less applause that smatters out beneath
exuberant uprights. Gone are the days of our father,
who crossed the prancing rope – a Fred Astaire,
careless and weightless, who wouldn’t come down to earth.
Gone are the nights of our starry mother, who hovered
high above us in a canopy of air
fit for the acrobatic age of our birth.
In those blue and yellow days, sheer joy shivered
on superhuman wings. We felt no fear
as we ourselves performed; it was not worth
our while to look for a safety net. We never
looked to the future, either. Don’t look back,
they said – an altogether different trick.
Michael Caines lives in London, and has had recent poems commended in the Battered Moons and Culpepper’s Remedy competitions.