When every day seemed a cause célèbre
and there were no old papers to recover the truth from
once the dust of ages had rendered them immune
from scandal recorded onto shellac discs,
everyone would feel a tad titchy. No wonder
Mr Honk felt on edge every time he prepared
his bacon and eggs.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My humble neighbours have recently started exercising
their vocal cords, only I’ve never ordered Wordsworth’s The Daffodils
to be recited in magpieese on my bedroom windowsill
at five in the morning.
However, it did get me thinking: what if the answer really is forty-two—
although I’m still not a cricket fan—but it was ordered by magpies, not mice,
and I’m stuck amongst shadows, alone, in this panopticon
full of sophisticated probability engines?
But why do I feel
like one ancient Greek is mocking another again?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 