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Please indulge me while I get the poetry urge out of my system. It won’t take long and I will be back to my old themes, I suspect. This one is a little sad, if you want to read it that way. Maybe I should have called it “The lonely city” or similar:

Pond Art

Three little fish coloured bright,
thought they were ducks, but were they right?
Skimming on the pond all day,
they didn’t move, just looked that way.

The height of style they swam a while.
They thought that ducks should always smile.
Alas, since not one knew quite how,
their smiles were neither fish nor fowl.

In tight formation duckling wise,
people’s glances caught their eyes.
Twas not their style that drew the cries;
their oddness, did they realise?

Haughtily they preened themselves
but did not know they weren’t the show.
The poor little fish who stayed quite still,
gave some seagulls a short-lived thrill.

While you’re here I hope you don’t mind a second, revised (improved?) edition of one from the last post:

Daughters

Two young daughters long since grown.
Unprepared for, now deep sown.
Surprised by love when you were born,
you loved me back, showed me warm.

Looking now, I don’t know how
fading colour could bring joy but other
than that which surges when memory emerges
of two gigglers who trusted, and loved me into life.

I smile inside when I spend the while
with your children on the floor.
I see the truth and can’t ignore
the fading photos underscore
what once was, but is no more.

Deep new joy now replaces,
not gone, reissued, now embraces
littler ones, themselves endowed.
Grown up joy, young life bestows,
loving, lasting truth I know.

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