Possession
by Chris Ingham

Still, early summer heat sat languidly
Upon my slumbering garden of dreams.
All was silent except for the fly's buzz,
Irritating, interposing itself
Upon my mellow self-satisfaction.

Eyes drawn now to the brewing south west clouds
Presaging the storm destined to arrive,
I closed my books, knowing the futility
Of my now deceitful tranquility.

My self-possession stuttered; I called you
And you came to me through the heaves of storm

Now we stand, we two, clinging together
Alone on our rain slanted mid-winter beach,
Keats' lovers fled away into the storm
Eternally possessed and dispossessed.

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