meandering afternoon

Meandering Afternoon.


The table, light catches a singular drop of
blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light,
asphalt is grey at night, not black and full of
spilt ale it felt adventurous, curled itself up
and splashed into the landscape where roads
had never before dared to thread. How happy
they were animals and tractors until they
discovered the road ended by a river, too
deep to cross in winters and too stony for
sore hooves in summers. This problem was
overcome when someone found a nugget of
gold and the landscape was full of prospectors
who survived, by eating their mules slowly.