Thursday, October 09, 2014

I don't like . . .

A single impossible word creeps slowly along the path
Skirting the tree root, and dodging under a blade of grass
When a man with size thirteen feet walks briskly past.
A note from a five-string flute floats, lazily on the wind
And drifts to the ground just next to the roundabout on
The playground that is populated by teenagers with
Piercings and tattoos and shoes with laces that are not tied.
A conker-drumbeat stomps its way up the steps, each
Foot a boot-shod resonance that echoes in the deepest
Depths of the mortal soul of the man with the size
Thirteen feet, who has stopped to chat to the teenagers
About the design of one of their tattoos.
And under the cover of this conversation, the word
And the note and the drumbeat meet, huddling quietly
At the foot of the slide, sheltering from the random and
Desultory raindrops that a sobbing cloud drips whilst
Arguing with the angry sky.
But in the end it is just another manic Monday.

© 2ndwitch, 09/10/14

(With thanks to The Bangles and 'Manic Monday' which was not so much an inspiration as a conclusion -

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