H 2 H : All is Folly.

Robert looks up
to psychotic blue.
Raw cold.
Chilled bones.
Denuded pond.
No life.
The bridle path rises;
imprint of chalk on hooves.

Contrails pattern the sky.
As boys flash their toys.
Passing into frost-encrusted
And reaching a copse of wood
partly collapsed , redundant
as trees.

To higher ground I traverse
and espy a vista of Severn
reaches and Welsh
Rest Room here.

Then to descend and reach
an owl tower.
Folly indeed.

Bemused , I follow
the sound of voices
floating on air like a disjointed
choir rehearsal.
All noise and little substance.
The children of Horton at play.

Ck 08/03/'10

Captain's Log
Moondate last quarter +1

" Truth has no patterns. "


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