In the Bell Tower with Dorothy
The lift, an antique thing
of chrome and satin steel,
as old I gauged as I was then,
shot us up towards the sky.
Deposited in a strange shaped place
my split second realisation that
this convex floor was the concave ceiling
I had dizzed my eyes upon moments before.
In my head something broke
the calm chalk grains in my ears
became a snow storm.
The vertical skewed to a sudden steep angle.
Dorothy, unphased, fearlessly
strode past warning signs
that screamed of danger
lurking each side of the path.
All I could sense was the space below,
the long fall through empty air,
and so on hands and knees I fled back to the ground
to wait for her with my shame.