The Wordle
James Robertson
THE SUNDAY WHIRL
Asks us to use the twelve words in the wordle
ON THE RUN
I knew they would get me in the end,
However hard I ran.
I knew it would end in capture,
However smart my plan.
Yes, I led the rebellion,
And exile was my fate.
Now 'they' have discovered my escape-route;
I've left things much too late.
Now I crouch in these ruins.......
Someone will lift the latch;
I'll be a 'feather in his cap',
What a prestigious catch!
He'll recognise me by the scar
Running across my cheek.
A metallic taste is in my mouth.
I'm vulnerable and weak.
The cause I upheld was dubious;
I'm petulant about it now.
My sacrifice means nothing;
Why bother, anyhow?
I'll dart out into the open
As soon as he rams the door;
I'll race like one demented
Out onto the open moor.
As I race toward the billows
Of the wild and open sky
I'll hear the staccato bullet-fire
And then I know I'll die.
Everything finally fuses
As I face this final call;
And all that's ringing in my mind
Is 'What was the point of it all?'
*
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MUNICIPAL MAGIC
All praise to the Municipal Gardener
Who pretties-up the town,
Who makes a splash of colour
In earth so rich and brown.
Who takes a plot on the corner
Outside The Junction Fair,
And digs and hoes
And then plants rows
Of flowers for me to share.
*
All praise to the Municipal gardener,
Whose back must sometimes ache;
Who gets blisters on his fingers
From spade and trowel and rake.
This verse is just to thank him;
I appreciate his role!
The vibrant hues,
The reds and blues
Splash colour on my soul.
*
