Chasing the butterfly, catching the lion
Truth is hard to find
The years ahead, the years behind,
Yet find it we do – in snatches – on days that go by:
On days when nothing is decided,
On throw-away days, such as these:
Smells and bells,
And all the frumpery of lawns.
Children connect us to the truth: goblins and elves
Books on the shelves where fairy tale worlds elude us still
Metaphors are not fit to give it shape
Nor are the big words,
That frighten us so.
In time, the whole edifice of 'reality' crumbles
Leaving behind all its contrary implications
Leaving me here, silent, brooding,
Staring at a world that is, forever, out of reach
Where (imagine this!) the lioness is quietly, flossingly, brushing her teeth.