Sunday, August 15, 2010

Monument to Folly

Illustration suppled by


The statue of a weeping woman,
 Clutching the earth,
Part of it,
Overgrown by it.
A monument supine.
Monuments stand.
They tower,
They impose,
 They are larger than life.
They spread wings,
Raise hooves,
Express power, triumph and glory.
Even in death.
This monument has lost the will to stand.
She is not triumphant.
She is cowed,
She is broken-hearted,
She is laid low
By her enemies.
For this is Mother Nature.
We have brought her to this.


Someone posted this little bird
And before I'd even read a word
I was drawn to these gentle hues;
Maybe not ones Gauguin would choose
But 'I like the colours'. Yes, she said it.
It hadn't loaded when I read it.
As the picture moved on down
I was surprised to see just brown!
I had expected something bright,
Some yellow, red or green delight,
Something to flash and flare and flurry,
Something to grab me in a hurry.
Something to jangle and distract,
Something vivid, action-packed.
She mentioned 'colour', I thought 'paint',
Something wild, without restraint.
Then, when I saw this little fellow,
With his feathers mild and mellow,
With that gentle, autumn brown,
With that snowy touch of down,
I thought 'Here is subtlety.'
I 'liked his colours', as did she.

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