Saturday, 7 March 2020

walking back to the frogspawn

walking back to the frogspawn

crawling over the sharp memories of youth
past the blushing pallor of coyness
the down streaming down of time
for there are enough tears to muddy
the path
enough mistakes
enough clinkers to rub dust into wet eyes
under fingernails 
the clause in the contract
of youthful exuberance’s clenched fists 
angst a question that never existed
never the perspective where ascension leads
to another plateau no better than this one
this here and now where we still accept 
that the foothills are no place for a permanent camp
that saturday’s best suit is a uniform
acceptance
that the worn steps need not be followed blindly
that light postponed until tomorrow 
may at any time 
  wheeeeeeee
the slide back polished with joy
for a boy an the hoof to the frog pond
where the frogspawn eyes tomorrow 
and speaks of nothing but the fields
the warm grass under scuffed knees
of a contentment incomprehensible 
under the blue sky and sunny eyes
with pollen dozing do
to sundown’s dozing do
does

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