between the mud and the blue

Up to my ankles in
pollen, floating in recent
puddles, whilst grumpy
grandchildren watch, restrained
by frantic grammas,

I laugh. To be grown-up
sometimes means to step
into puddles and smell
roses and jump to a tune
played inside your own head.

I laugh, and walk into rain
envied by children, seen
by the shuddering adults
plodding about in the gloom
of bat-winged umbrellas.

It is a world full of
rain and emerald sunshine, wind
and flowers, and nettles, and dark, and
a few candles: so the lost
child wanders and wonders,

On a path full of fun
and endless strangers. In a
puddle of sky framed with pollen,
I’m a pillar between the blue and
the mud, trying to find

The ancient mirror of further in.

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