Beneath a wide and weary sky,
like pilgrims on a road,
the two of us go walking by,
each carrying a load
of freshly plucked midsummer's hay,
so fragrant, fresh, so frail,
so foolish – at the end of day
to turn all coarse and stale,
and dry like anybodys' guess
as to the yesteryear's
affection, pleasure, or distress,
of meanings not quite clear.
Or, names pronounced Alice-wise,
or Caterpillar way...
We've got to pluck, and when it dries,
we throw it all away.
A sack of memories construed,
a bucketful of pain
we used to play around imbued
with accidence insane.
The two of us, hay-carriers,
one time, the other space,
adorn with raunchy flowers
'a fine and private place'.
5 августа 2022 г.