“Walking with Wordsworth”

I stood outside and watched

some boys playing a game,

their faces red from running,

shirts brown from sliding

across the rain-soaked grass.

The storm had passed and

it didn’t smell like Africa,

but the world felt fresh and I,

a pagan suckled in a creed outworn,

went for a stroll through the sunset.

 

I walked passed the lines of cars

watching the faces of the people

contrasted with the light show

put on in four-part harmony by

the sun and staggered clouds,

culminating in the eruption

of a long-extinct volcano

shooting colour into sky,

roused by rumbling boots

while traffic crawled slowly by.

 

They didn’t seem very happy,

all these driven masses

travelling well-worn roads,

unable to stand and watch

the final act as it closed

with dusty orange streaks

floating over the moon.

So I stood, looked up forlorn,

and turned before the coming night

hoping to hear Triton’s wreathed horn.

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