<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Words<\/strong><\/p>\n These words, little more than trinkets, piffle, As time plunders and loots along An occasional monument mutters and natters Hoping someone will catch the re-bound
\nTrade in counterfeits with the soul
\n(Should there be one).
\nThey stack loose change in separate piles
\nHoping they might add up one day
\nTo sums almost enough to pay
\nA bigger bill. A shambles, bric-\u00e0-brac,
\nSurreptitiously changing meanings<\/p>\n
\nIts gaudy way, hooting from start to finish.
\nThey strut, preposterously, gasp, grunt
\nAnd grapple with approximations
\nStuffed into boxes that are too small
\nOr wallow in shallow waters
\nOr clatter against the bars of mindless cages.
\nSimpletons, yet our only hope.<\/p>\n
\nIn memory\u2019s swamps. Words are alligators,
\nProwling semi-submerged among
\nNeurons\u2019 mangrove roots, dense, impenetrable,
\nRepetitive, tarnished, unclear.
\nSome creatures learn their way around
\nAmong the gaps, the misunderstandings,
\nThrowing words at the page<\/p>\n
\nAnd pass them on and even help them
\nCome home again with a new suit of clothes,
\nWalking sticks, walking frames, wheelchairs,
\nProvided the sparkle still glimmers there.
\nI tinker with the search engine.
\nIt cranks up sometimes, spluttering, coughing.
\nIt takes me places, like somewhere and nowhere.<\/p>\n