Freedom - Working Week

The mountains remain impartial.
Changeless for a thousand years.

Slow and sluggish,
The town breathes the first air of the dawn.
Beneath steely skies, the wind rustles the poplars,
Shaking the dust from their leaves.

Grey stone battlements,
The grim facades of apartment blocks
Above me the sky,
And freedom.

The river winds its way,
Through the town,
Seeking its own freedom,
Past the green fields of France.
Past mountains,
Through unseen valleys,
On its lazy way to the sea.

The clock strikes fear.

Engines splutter into life,
The factory siren wails,
Iron hammers clang,
Forging the shackles of Monday morning.

The gates open,
The town yawns.
Clouds gather over the battlements,
Darkening the room.

Come in from the balcony,
Time to begin.
I take my place at the table.
The pen flows
Rivers of words, sprawl.
Dark footprints on the driven snow.
Ideas form and dissolve.

Outside,
The shutters are removed,
From shop windows.
Cream cakes,
Captive behind glass.
The proprietor,
Invisibly held,
By the though of his livelihood,
Drinks tea in his cell.

I write.
I have the freedom to write.
Escape the grim tower,
Into the pages of imagination,
And freedom.

The pen;
lock-pick,
Hovering between internment and liberty.

I write within the confines of words.
Knowing that I,
Am bound by language.
Though I am freer than my brothers.

The mountains look on,
And make no comment,
Unaware of their freedom.