And once again soft scented breezes
Caressed the perfection of morning,
Sighing from nowhere,
Heading anywhere – everywhere.
Rustling restless motions
Searching amidst the wild growth
Of the roadside
And in far flung fields and around
An astounding blaze –
Yellow and gold
Snatched my breath,
Left me for a moment without.
What towering giants stood there,
Heads upturned towards azure sky,
And the blazing eye,
So tall and fair these massed ranks –
Swayed by sweet breath of summer,
Lost in a whispered conversation –
Hushed to all but themselves
They nodded and smiled
A mutual agreement
To silent sentiments
Only they could comprehend.
And then far away a sudden burst
Of birdsong, carrying down the breeze;
As though her very heart might break
If that melody were to stop
Before it reached Heaven above.
And I thought I understood
The nodding of those flowers
Growing all around.
And for an instant
I thought I knew
There was a God
And the world
Was at peace,
Dazed and bewildered
Standing ‘pon stygian shores
Of midnight’s deepest myre,
Drowned in darkness,
There exists no sight;
No sound –
Seems no sense at all.
Nothing is fresh.
There is no life;
No breath –
Of welcome death.
Feels no sense at all.
Nothing thrives or grows – Under realm and reign
Of Nocturne’s fallen Darkling Prince.
Stillness of smothersome silence encroaches
‘pon everything around,
Leaving naught but slow fade
of human memory.
Wracked and ruined rubble –
Fallen; falling still,
From vaulten gilded firmaments filled
With beautiful, fire-fretted dreams of an ancient world –
Paradise long lost,
Where soft spreadling wings
Once bore a fool aloft –
With laughter, light,
All that went before –
A Tower for to build.
So look you…!
And cast your eyes not down.
Gaze thee ‘pon a tragic, benighted fool.
Look now –
And see him very well.
One who hoped – oft-times ventured
That his tower might reach the Moon,
’til he smote at its foundations,
Laying waste to all around
Paralysed and useless –
Fool’s tower hit the ground …
Now ’tis very dark here –
And I can’t find my way
The Trollimoste- Gumbell dids’t lumberode forth
To espy, whereupon he coulds’t fathom.
He perused a course of Westerly-North
’til he chanced on the Uppermost Lathom.
“Oh dearest Lathom“, the Trollimoste said,
Pray what is the secret of greatness…?
And the Lathom replied –
In the Trollimoste’s head –
“Sliced bread, and a penchant for lateness“.
The Trollimoste-Gumbell dids’t whiffle away
With a dose of Great-Ego-Inflatus,
And he said to himself
“Therefore, to be great
I’ll eat bread and be known for me lateness“.
Several years passed –
Neither slowly nor fast,
And the Trollimoste kept to his vigil.
But no greatness became,
Nor fortune, nor fame,
Though he dids’t meets a Trollimoste-Girgil.
So once more our drear Trollimoste lumberade forth –
Great riddle forto unrathom,
He perused that old course –
One of Westerly-North
’til he chanced upon said Lathom.
“Oh dearest Lathom“, the Trollimoste sighed,
“Pray, why’m I not great, just like you…?”
And the Lathom replied
“That’s b’cause I lied,
But you took silly words at face value“.
And the moral to this sordiest tale…?
Don’t be like the Trollimoste-Gumbell.
When conversing whith Lathoms
– By word OR by tail –
Don’t try to be great