I caught the sun.
I was browned off
and danced aimlessly through the heavens,
catching planets
and bouncing off stars.
I chased away comets
heading for Earth
and tightened the asteroid belt
a few notches,
then I darted into interstellar space
past the Oort Cloud,
neutralised a few nebulae
and got the sun into proportion.
Now, taking a cool look,
I could see that it was tiny,
smaller than a ping pong ball
and the palm of my hand.
On the minus side,
it was a long way away.
But space is negotiable.
I reached through a black hole,
fought off the worms,
and my fingers closed round a warm white ball.
I juggled with it, like a clown,
until it had cooled enough for me to hold.
It gave me a glow inside
until I noticed the Earth had disappeared
and I had nowhere to go back to.
I had caught the sun.
I closed my eyes
and covered the whole thing up.
It was not me.
I was not there.
The beach was empty.
This is the second poem I read at Walpole Old Chapel. The third, Proof of Heaven, will appear here shortly. The first is available by clicking here.