Red-Headed

On the first of April
A long way from home
I stood at a crossroads,
Or should I say a busy junction.

There are cycles & cycles
& the years & the months
Passed me by in a heat haze
Of miraged 'also time'.

Which govern the possible.
Maybe they don't or won't
& we let them slip by unnoticed
Or unforgiven.

The roar of a lorry
& slipstreaming traffic.
Both shatter a reverie of sorts
& takes my psyche to the brink

Of being an April Fool
Standing before vistas
& brave new worlds
That could be real or imaginary.