Would that I could
write pure, unadulterated poetry;
but, it is beyond me.
Far, far, beyond;
over the hills
and far, far away;
and, also, not something
that I care to do.
But, I could…
if I wanted to,
but, I do not want
to float like a cloud,
compare thee to a bee,
or charge happily
into the valley of death,
That’s so old hat,
and I am not one for old hats,
and that’s the truth –
I have the attributes of youth—
okay, so I make stuff up,
that is my cup.
Where did you think that was going?
I write this, and I had no way of knowing.
Graeme Sandford 