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Thermania ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales
1969

The howling wind pulled
Roughly at my clothing
As I sublimated
Calmly in my seat.
My entire mind was
Filled with utter loathing;
Since birth I've always
Tried to keep it neat.
Still did the raging
Torrent drag me onward,
My brisk walk quickly
Turned into a trot. I rolled around
The corner by some graveyard,
At what I saw
My senses all were shot.

Sixty thousand watts
Of filtered Russian sunlight
Crashed brightly through
Elasticated trees;
Metricated two-tone
Feather-mattress eagles
Flew around with jellied
Bees-wax on their knees.
Somebody called my name
Aloud in plural,
I turned my face half-way
To see a girl;
Her coat was Lincoln Green,
She wore no make-up,
Her eyes were held apart
By cultured pearls.

Thermania, lovely Thermania,
If I kissed you, would you mind?
Just give me all your loving
And I'll pay you back in kind.

I asked her if
This place had any meaning,
She merely smiled
And turned my blood to cream,
Then told me this was
My imagination,
She was just
A figment of my dream.
Yet still it came about
That moments later,
Down where the moon-beams
Laugh, I held her tight.
I kissed her once,
I heard her say she loved me,
Then she was gone,
Away, into the night.

Thermania, lovely Thermania,
For your kiss I'll always pine;
None may share in the pleasure
Of knowing that you're mine.

So I stood and watched
The strange events unfolding,
As soldier ants
Prepared themselves for war;
Seven cabbage-coated
Hermit crabs were crying,
They saw no sense
In meat not eaten raw.
Throughout these things
I yearned for my Thermania,
Searching everywhere
In the acres of my dream.
It's easily done
To explain a Solar Synapse,
But not to find the girl
Who turned my blood to cream.

Thermania, lovely Thermania,
Shall I see you once more?
Why grant love, then remove it
To die on a distant shore?


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