I set off to your gunshot: A poem 

It is no raging curse, but an unforeseen boon 

This, my long-haul race with a marble on a spoon 

In such grace, even lowly crows can croon 

And lions and unicorns can dance and swoon 

The crackle of thunder is in the horizon yonder 

where there’s blood in dew, and squares are rounder 

A sprinkling of colour makes the night sky azure 

No medication is needed, just your word is my cure 

You are as messianic as the Old Testament on the table 

In the frantic streets, we connect like a cable 

Each pane in my mirrorwork has your face like a label 

There’s innocence in the walking stick and wisdom in the cradle 

Like a forklift driver, I manage each lot of burden 

No game is too strange for enthusiastic children 

I have chlorophyll in my leaves that sustain without sun 

and an athlete’s bearing to the shot of your gun