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Published in Windmills zine produced by Deakin University, "Unremarkable" is also the titular poem of a small collection produced by Ginninderra Press.

Unremarkable

Imageby Ron Barton26 Oct 2014

I wander in and out of life,
drifting between worlds like changing channels
and in each one she is there.
She is the one the thunder claps for,
applauding her presence.
She is the one the rain falls for,
appreciating her beauty.
I watch her now,
in the heart of this storm,
and she is soaked
in sunlight,
bent over a well and wishing for something to wish for.
I wish I could tell her the way I feel,
wish I could touch her to see if she feels the way I’ve imagined.
Instead I just watch,
observe her lean just a little too far
and the wall of the well
collapse beneath her hand.
I watch as she loses balance
and topples into the well itself
and then I watch no more.
I dive in after her
and find myself falling through the sky,
an unopened parachute strapped to my back.
I see her below me but she is no longer
falling
she is
flying
and her wingspan is incredible.
She doesn’t see me as she soars away.
I land inside a children’s book
but find no comfort in its glossy pages.
Of all the places I could touch down,
I find the one with little words.
My angel lands in literature.
I run.
See me run.
Run, boy, run.
But I have come undone.
I realise something quite profound,
I cannot stay here any longer.
For each moment I stay on this ‘ground’
its hold on me grows ever stronger.
I tear the page
around myself
and leave a gaping hole
in my wake
as I float effortlessly down,
rocked by the gentle breeze.
There is nothing gentle about my landing.
I awaken on a pirate ship,
tied to a flaming mast like a veritable Joan of Arc.
Through the tears and smoke
I see her,
my angel,
forced into a barrel and thrown into the ferocious seas.
I scream
but there is no-one to scream to.
I squirm and kick
and feel the mast give way,
feel it buckle where it burns
and I, too, end up in the drink.
I look for my girl
and see her barrel has been transformed
into a luxurious yacht.
I, however,
am still bound to my mast -
blessed by its buoyancy,
burdened by its bindings.
Unable to affect its course,
I resign myself to its movements.
Carried by the sea,
buffeted by spray,
I am soaked to the core.
It is then that I hear a tender voice say,
“Hey, you should get out of the rain,”
and I open my eyes
to see my beauty
smile and walk away.

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