The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
FROM mindlove misery the intriguing suggestion that we use as inspiration a song from the decade of our birth. For me that's the thirt...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
Thursday 28 February 2013
An Infant Non-Sequitur
It was my finest castle ever,
commanding views all round,
the moat left dry by order of
my infant client with the secret plans.
But that was then.
As I recuperate from my exertions
in the hot sun (of late October)
he is busy knocking down
and building up
and changing bits. The drawbridge
and the ramparts, for example, have become
a new kind of Spaghetti Junction --
just one part of his vast
expanding grid of motorways
that threatens the whole beach.
On the highest stretch of the spaghetti now,
a hole. Roadworks! he calls -- and from
his bag takes several toy cars. Eight in all.
With them he forms a queue before the hole.
They stretch back over the long span -- at least,
some seven of them do. The eighth one will not fit.
He tries to push it on behind the seventh car.
The first rolls off,
falls into the hole.
He replaces them, each one with care,
each to its former home
and tries again, but this time from the road works end.
The last car in the queue rolls off.
Again they are replaced.
Not to be defeated, now he moves them from
the centre of the queue, creates a space in which another car will fit. But both end cars have fallen off.
He looks at me,
The bridge is far too small! he calls
It's only big enough for seven cars...
his voice tails off.
What will you do then? I inquire.
Make it longer, dad, that's what...
He looks imploringly, but I'm asleep.
I see him measuring the bridge extension now.
He's making sure it's one car length. No less.
No more. But now, before he tries again
he takes a ninth car from his bag - and still
the queue can not be fitted to the bridge!
Dear reader, you may now return
to the first line. For your second reading, please
up any number that you meet, by one!
Written for the prompt at Poetry Jam in which Peggy invites us to think in terms of a logical non sequitur.