I found a time machine
In my back
room
Which had
been there for years
But it now
suddenly appeared
In this
suburban situation.
It was not a
contraption
Of levers and
dials
From HG
Wells’ great imagination.
Nor the end
of a space-time hole or crack
Which terminators
could use
To go when
and then again go back.
It was only
an old portfolio
Made of cardboard
fabric and tape
Which was a portal
to long passed days
When the artworks
in it were made
Young boys sitting
a maths exam
In nineteen
thirty one
And the
artist noted in at a later time
After the
drawing was done
That one of
the boys
Spat fire in
the skies
Flying a fighter
plane
Whilst the
artist worked on beneath
Painting the
bombsites
In blast ravaged
London streets.
I close the
portfolio
And travel
back to now
Where war is
still carves human meat
Oh time
machine,
Please carry
me off
To a future
of freedom and peace.
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