It’s the enigma of it all. And, as they say
In this country; I’ve a tendency
To ‘bat the breeze’. Forsooth – I am
A talker but I also walk
My tongue into the heart of action.
Perhaps … it’s in the blood spilled
On other shores; the pedigree
I refuse to mock. There, the hand
Of Campania valour
Would slap me on the back –
Project, ‘Speech is richer when life’s poor’!
So, verbose or no, critical to the lee-side
Of sullen human nature
(… A term I’d not invent nor let loose)
I specify – ‘a mouth was not meant
to yawn itself to comfortable ends’.
Countryman, never of the same barbarous roots –
Rather my words be pulped
By the olive-press; by the grape
Treader’s feet and thrashing elbow
Than forget to breathe free union of thought.
And, these opinions drafted first as epigrams, con brio,
Deserve the roughest plywood case
To let the fearless elements in. Later, when
The last mask covers both our names there’ll come
A constant whirring …
‘No comforting ends!’ Just naroo, thistle, fleur-de-lis.
© Stefanie Bennett