A pilgrimage of mushrooms
lined on the lawn
oldest at the front
a spongey knuckle, youngsters
behind like a trail of droppings
snapshotted going.
Wither? That's all their wisdom,
to pass from rot
to newer, better rottenness,
it's the very gulp of truth:
every mushroom a syllable
and in line, spondees.
Wednesday 25 July 2007
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment