Sid's fuss was he walked and plodded and walked
At a forty-five degree
Angle (if, in geometrical talk,
you were inclined). His knees heaved heavily
Like two brains weary of the skin they’re in
And, needing much required rest,
Aspired to be on level ground again.
Both bone and mind worked hard to do their best.
The central source, the one inside his skull,
Like the popliteal joints, also
Throbbed as he pushed thoughts up a cerebral hill.
Ideas on high and laboured, he feared, roll
Right back down again. So life of mind he deemed
An everlasting upward push
Where thought was naught for naught and all seemed
Worthless. Interruption was a singing thrush
In a garden. Lush vegetation grew in spurts.
Between leaves a porcelain god
Sat smiling. A spinning pinwheel (to scare off birds?)
Pierced the ground of this strange slope of sod.
The bloated god in the garden was not winking.
Here the illusion felt firm.
As the slippery slow sun began sinking,
The wheel simply danced shadows on his face as it turned.
This sight caused a rolling but without the care
Though the thought failed to waiver.
His mind let it roll and fall everywhere
And Sid self-promised, on a slant, to love the labour.
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