The Little Things

That matter.

Photograph by Author

Changes in the landscape,
Like a mountain range,
And I know, for heaven’s sake,
I can’t rearrange.

Clouds that come in clusters,
Blue skies turn to grey,
And despite adjusters,
There’s little I can say.

Other than it’s raining,
Purely metaphorical,
As the swamp is draining,
Is allegorical.

The fierce and fast will not last,
Whilst I bring up the rear,
And despite the bugle blast,
I remain without fear.

They race in case they’re lost again,
Then run on further still,
In an attempt to regain,
The effects of the last pill.

The little things that matter,
And those that, I suppose,
End up in a splatter,
Right under my nose.

Tripping the light fantastic,
A sojourn by the sea,
Or, a little less drastic,
It may be time to flee.

Changes in the temperature,
In the landscape, too,
Water that ought to fall,
Omens that come true.

©

David Rudder
2024

Thank you for reading this piece and my poetry.