Truth is  hard to find

The years ahead, the years behind,

Yet find it we do – in snatches – on days that go by:

On days when nothing is decided,

On throw-away days, such as these:

Smells and bells,

And all the frumpery of lawns.

Children connect us to the truth: goblins and elves

Books on the shelves where fairy tale worlds elude us still

Metaphors are not fit to give it shape

Nor are the big words,

That frighten us so.

In time, the whole edifice of 'reality' crumbles

Leaving behind all its contrary implications

Leaving me here, silent, brooding,

Staring at a world that is, forever, out of reach

Where (imagine this!) the lioness is quietly, flossingly, brushing her teeth.