I lived in dust, detritus, assorted dead skin, hair and
Miscellaneous pieces of lego too small to contemplate.
The odd cheerio,
A spider or three.
Sand, bland, somewhat damned.
Pot-bellied pig excrement occasionally
Livening up the proceedings.
Brighter than the others but inanimate.
Spiders weaved their webs into beautiful sentiment,
Making joy out of dead dusty musty places,
But I could not.
My brandishing French soul felt the urge
To charge out of the bag.
I charged relentless to the hills,
And saw them,
Shrivelled from some long dead battle.
I curl up into a crunchy ball to honour their green
Solemnity fills the air,
For a moment.
But I toddle on, my little legs headed somewhere.
Mais oui, cherie,
A hoover bag is not the place for me.
I want to see the sea,
A buzzing bumble,
That is the life for me.
The wind caressing me as I roll down the hill,
And struggle my pithy little legs until
I can right myself and
Toddle back up again.
C’est la vie, cherie,