At Last by Nathan Munday

The orange peel gathers on the desert desk

as post-it notes fuse with strings and stains.

The seconds tick-by but the light remains,

as the chariot loses its way

to the west.

The rattling of the A/C machine,

above the shaking trays of tea

moving from the canteen.

The bay-like desks harbour us like boats

anchored on the carpet sea.

We stare at monitors, HD screens –

lighthouses, fooling us

with numbing beams.

The humming A/C machines,

telephones and trolleys,

rattling from the canteen.

This man-made archipelago expands

like a plastic meadow.

Blue tac, stapling, taping – stuck like bic

pens in a crowded pot.

We are free

to worship that A/C Machine.

A deity rumbling above

the trolleys.

But there is a time on the flexi sheet

which cuts the chain of this single boat.

He sails the harbour, wears his coat,

and exits with his course set

for the hill.

I cross the road and cattle grid, taking my feet up Cynon’s edge.

Just me and the breeze, and the wild trees

growing like empires in green colonies.

This exodus home from Pharaoh’s lair.

Plucking my harp on a Babylonian stair-

way to Salem.

And then I come to my style.

It knows my knees.

I bow and worship my Deity.

My office sits still, like a wasp on glass,

My thumb covers its thorny mass,

Now, I can hear bees at last.