Stargazing

A hundred coloured dots upon a chart

And I am lost at sea, cannot connect

The constellations. “Find the number nine,”

The school nurse softly pleads. I search in vain:

Its form eludes my grasp. I try again.

“Now here’s another. Plot the zigzag line.”

A tot, I’d rarely failed a test before.

“He’ll never be a pilot, that’s for sure!”

At night, in later years, my mind would roam.

I’d try to conjure hues unseen, unknown -

To me or any other man before -

To fathom their intensity, their raw,

Brilliant heat: their scent, their sound, their depth.

But every tone to which my mind gave breath:

A mere Chimaera, spawned of the familiar.

Imagination trussed and linear.

All that’s new is begotten by the old.

None sees the world with perfect sight, we peer

Through lenses of unique design and steer

Our ships through raging seas, star charts unclear.

But solace comes at night. Our course is right.

Strange though the path may seem: it’s just the old retold.