Tripping
The light fantastic
Changes in the landscape,
Like a mountain range,
And I know
I can’t rearrange.
Clouds that come in colours
Blue skies turn to gold
And despite adjusters,
seasons that unfold
Other than it’s raining,
Purely metaphorical,
As the swamp is draining
it 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,
Some movement in the furniture,
Omens that come true.
©
David Rudder
2023
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