The Long Last Post
Arthuria Maycandle, writer of dreams,
Has discovered that life is not quite as it seems.
Though ‘Ts’ have been crossed and though ‘Is’ have been dotted,
And woodpeckers generally seem to be spotted;
And palms, shrimps and versions invariably potted.
Though water’s still wet and the soil is still brown,
She has found that the world has begun to slow down.
It started last Monday at quarter to seven,
When the pot didn’t brew until half past eleven.
Time, always expected, at her age, to fly,
Began to traverse in three winks of an eye.
By the time night appeared, two whole days had gone by.
And the water in fountains, from leaving the spout,
To its splash in the basins, completely dried out.
Now yesterday’s news happened ages ago,
And so far back in time that there’s nothing to know.
And best before dates never seem to be reached.
And was that a Viking ship recently beached,
And will that rogue Nixon be ever impeached?
The grass now needs once-a-year cuts on the lawn,
And it takes thirteen weeks to complete a whole yawn.
Arthuria Maycandle has to get ready.
She’s no need to rush, so she’s taking it steady.
The hands on the clock have begun a go-slow,
And when it will finish, well, no one will know.
But, out with a whimper, this tired world will go.
For all things diminish and duly will stop.
And suddenly everything ends with a plop!
©Ruth Twyman Lockyer July 2014