A Dark Cloud
What am I doing here? I wonder,
making an advert for soap in a place called Masterful Canyon.

Seeking an answer, I get down and dirty amid cowering cactus.
But all I gained was a sore bottom, for cacti can be nasty.

I was startled to see a meteorite flash across the sky,
and hear a voice cry ‘You wouldn’t see that in Dublin,’
then saw an old Indian with a wooden box, full of jumping mice, 
with a sign proclaiming ‘Dark Cloud, The Magical Apache’.

I asked, ‘How do you know I’m from that city?’

He walked away, but turned back to ask,
‘Could you spare a few grand, my act needs funding?’

Unabashed at my rebuff, he pointed at the starry firmament,
‘That’s a message from the gods – don’t ignore the wandering Apache.’

I laughed, because one thing I have experience of is frauds,
but intrigued, ask, ‘Which god in particular?’

I’m dumbfounded when he replies, ‘That’s yer choice,’
and he walked into the dark, chanting at the fading meteor,
‘Ah, will seek begotten, arrows, spears befluff,’
and my body tingled as I listened to his fading voice.

On my return to camp the director’s personal assistant, Miss Light Cloud,
looked up from her sketch pad with a wink,
but the nurse shooed her away, with a reprimand,
‘Don’t be looking, I’m putting ointment on his backside.’

Curious as to what she’s drawn, I’m amused to see myself slaving over a kitchen sink, with a young woman by my side.

But the scar on my rear never leaves me, and at night I wake,
convinced mice are crawling across it.

My psychologist has diagnosed the cause as guilt,
after failing to help the wandering Indian.

So I returned to that prickly desert, where, to my annoyance,
I’m ignored by that same old man, who sits on a rock, humming.

I wonder, ‘Doesn’t he know who I am? He’s hurt my feelings.’

But he answers, ‘Yes I do, you’re a fraud!’

So I thought about the journey which took me to this desolate place,
how I rose from struggling singer-songwriter to rock god, but only a few years later, revered pop critic, Josie Jumpflite, referred to me as ‘A huge talent,
whose rapid rise to fame is now surrounded by an aura of filth’.

To top it all, my agent called me a disgrace,
and strongly suggested I clean up my act, so got me a gig advertising soap.

The next day I visited a Texas bar.
A band played corny love songs, about truckers and lovelorn cow hands,
and a silly one about an old Indian with dancing mice, who fought buffaloes and wrestled bears.

But his little daughter was not impressed, and would sit and mope.

By a strange coincidence, I danced with the older version, Miss Light Cloud,
who refused me a goodnight kiss, but whispered,
‘You are not for me, but another.

‘Seek out the magical man with his jumping mice, but use your initiative, and catch him unawares.

‘Apaches respect someone who creeps up in the night,
naturally camouflaged, but I can’t be bothered painting you in dirt and feathers,
so suggest you wear a disguise.

‘First, lose that moustache, then array thyself in my sister’s clothing,
she’s about your size.

‘Oh, don’t forget the lipstick.’

‘Right,’ I said, breathless at this turn of events.

She looked at me with a big smile, saying,
‘I’ll wish you goodnight, and the best of British luck.’

‘I’m Irish.’

‘Sorry... Oh, I nearly forgot, when I was meditating on a rock called Marie’s Mountain, so named by the invading Spanish,
I had a vision of you seducing your nemesis.’

So, that night I approached the Indian with great stealth.
Suffice to say I’m now accompanying him on his tour of Europe,
an aide to a travelling Apache.

I’m content to be a feeder of mice and carrier of baggage,
and, when dressing up as the fairer sex, go unrecognised,

In the evening I slave over a sink in our little camper van,
as foretold in Miss Light Cloud’s sketch, making that traditional Irish dish,
bacon and cabbage, but curiously, without a young woman.

A rave act on the alternative theatre circuit, tonight we’re in Dublin.
I spent the afternoon incognito, wandering round my birthplace of Swords,
and remembered my ma, who always said I should stand up for myself.

So, resolving to take Josie, my fiercest critic, to task,
arrange to meet her on Grafton Street,
that tourist thoroughfare where I used to busk.

At first she refused, citing our last encounter at the Brit Awards,
in which she says, ‘I was very rude.’

But my opening remark floored her, ‘Life’s much better since
I was pricked on the backside.’

Josie was about to say, ‘Don’t be so crude!’ when she looked at the sky,
to see a meteor illuminate the night.

And I murmur, ‘God bless you, Dark Cloud.’
Now my travelling companion and I have a new assistant and cook, my finance,
Miss Josie Jumpflite.