Clutching a barren handrail
Bristling with sighs
I kept a countenance sturdy
With a big glassy grin.
My age was awash
Infatuated with unknowing
I had crept to that checkpoint
Faceless myself and daring.
Hexagonal rain and
‘Yes there is form in this’
Form was the comfort
And structure the hatches.
If consciousness was driver
Then a license was missing
Shoved one way
With a broken headlight.
Signs aplenty
Waiting to be unjumbled –
Sam Huddlestone 