Come now, step into the time machine
and quench your sparking heartbeat with a smile:
touch lightly each chronometer, dappled by
thin sleeves of plastic hiding it from age;
the walls lined with charts, maps into the past,
of troubled lands in happier, kinder times
to which you might return; furrows and bumps
punctuated by the metronome
of beeps-per-minute, counting down to launch.
The ticker wavers, speeds up, falls away.
In your moon-suit, you approach the pilot
strapped in against relativity's crunch,
nervous like the time you picked her up
from where she tripped and fell on your first date.
Don't worry, you said, I'm a professional
fixer-upper - so many years ago
you wonder if she'll recognise the spot.
Her eyes follow you between tubes and vials
suspending the present; her forehead cool
to your fingers, as you turn time backwards
remembering the last time that you'll say
"Don't worry, dearest, you'll be back home soon."
By Mark YeowQLRS Vol. 14 No. 2 Apr 2015