Lad's reveries on mountain-top
let memories escape nonstop.
Astir from dream-mares wogging pate,
fog's arms around his slack slow gait.

 

                      

A saddened child, as yet jejune.
his shadow bloomed beneath half moon.
The cliffs, stiff-backed, tall and grim,
like ma’s nightclothes, pajamas prim.

 

                         

 

Pale roses, lilies on a grave.
The children whisper, “He was brave.”
Behold, dread death stands still, abreast
the casket watching as a guest.

 

                           

Lad’s mother has his hand in hers;
a lake of tears encumbers, blurs.
Awake, prevision chills his view.
Présage de mort, merci-beaucoup.

 

                             

He looks around for faces known;
a lass in white, her beauty shown.
“What’s this?” he asks the retroscope.
“Enjoy my boy. Big show, we hope!"

 

                              

And then, right there, she took to air,
a loop-de-loop, then nose dove where
earth's gorge yawned wide; down deep in dirt.
She pulled out worms and made dessert.

 

                            

At last she worked the crowd both out
and in. Next ticked bare toes to roust
repose, then dumped the earthy feast
(With cream), atop a pious priest

 

                               

who ate it up and asked for more
with coffee please, a lump or four.
Awake next morn the boy, unfused,
asked 'carnival or macabre snooze?'

 

                               

Like Wisps, realities uprise
... dives on fear, on hope or sighs.
So, softly trolls about us creep,
like fitful flows of high tide's neap.