The Engineer

A young engineer on a globe-trotting career finds neither time nor space to understand the grace of Life's great beauty. Hardly time to sit and think, Where next? Sees a building, loves its shape; wonders how the interlace of architectural thought, can hold it there in bold and brazen, clear-blue air? Wonders at the marvel of a mind that thinks in stone, treating rock like putty on a drawing board of loam? Asks a thousand questions in a brain that's gone berserk with images of onion domes and bright-silk, see-through skirts.

Checks his watch, it's almost time; only got five minutes left before the next deadline. Building gone, time to run; hits the nearest bar at speed to dance and drink and over-feed on anything he can. Culture Shock is one mean block from which he cuts the rock-worlds of his mind. Gets in close and looks in eyes; sees a truth behind the lies of hands outstretched. Sees a power ruling all beneath with no more thought than great relief that silence still walks tall. Sees a world where abject grief is financed by a warrior chief whose passport lists him as a thief.

Nomad shoes upon his feet, the young engineer has a country to meet before the night is out. Changes hat, changes thought, learns a brand-new language as he's dashing through the transit lounge of life. Smiles at guard with big fat gun, sphincter tight but still the fun is forcing games of chance upon the freedom that could glance-away at tangents if he blinked. Guard stares back and waits for him to show a crack or tiny chink of light. Then grins a bucked-toothed welcome and pretends that he has known him all his life.

Sees a building, bold and brash, financed by a candle-rash that burns within with such a flash that eyes are blasted shut. Wonders at such beauty that can trap an eye forever in its tractor-beam of light. Then spots a leg in silken thread and turns the spotlight on his bed, where works of art are painted red. Smells the scent of Nature fair in abstract love and sweat-drenched hair, before once more into the air in freefall mode without a care. Moves so fast through time and space that slipstream force distorts his face and camouflages slips in grace as knowledge from a crystal lace.

The engineer is on his head at the speed of light from an unmade bed, and far below amongst the glow of coloured suits he spies a base. Hurricane wind inside his head is blowing out his thoughts of bed; then comes that spark that says, instead, 'There's Glory on down here!' Eye meets eye in humble pie where only skill will count, and in that instant time stands still for the 8-way mind-embrace that no longer functions in the human race as a bunch of statistics in someone else's case.

Touches thought that's well rehearsed. Speaks in language never taught. Knows that life has bought for him a place, where lies are gone and freedom's won a slot in time that's labelled 'fun', and never mind the size of gun that waits on solid Earth. For in the clouds and singing proud are souls that are set free from crowds, whose minds can rarely make that sound.

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