Driving past the roundabout.
Beatles on, roof down.
Been working like a dog,
And when we go around
I am reminded of Yeats
And his widening gyre –
A concept quite curious,
His genius I admire.
High on happiness,
The battle today is done.
His words consume my heart away
As my shades reflect the sun.

The music: loud,
Really loud, too loud,
Louder,
Deafening.

Each second stripped away,
Pushed coolly across my face
And through my hair like the
Blustery breeze.
I feel so at ease,
But not for long, for today,
Time turns against me in that race.

Race, race faster.
Go fast,
Faster,
Deadening.

The fateful call comes.
I must accept it
And ignorantly fall foul
Of the unexpected,
As the fumes of summer fruit –
The movement of strawberry sales,
Crosses the beaten asphalt.
My face rapidly pales.

Turning and turning,
Spinning half a dozen.
Anarchy loosened, burning –
My rough beast has risen.

I fail to feel alright,
Drenched in a poppy field!
The music is slowly dying,
Softening.

A revolution has been fought,
Restrained as the summer breeze
Is stopped, then turned on its head.
I marvel at the distant trees
Spinning, so dizzy I can barely move.
Crushed car, blood dripping, crushing me.
The world is as red as those pitiless poppies
And I discover the truth:
They will be the last thing I see,

The last glimpses of life:
Choke, choke,
Eyes spiralling,
Choking, blood,
Drowning.