Woe betide the belly-flop of your chances here on the huckleberry smearing’s for your day of days… when through the sky I’ll peep into the inner workings of what you’re planning to become. All in your singsong way of being on centre stage and the trip trap clunking of your tiny steps making their way gingerly up the steel rungs of this ladder the spinners of fate have put in your path.
In all recognition, they’re winking to you. Bottoms up the glass of the mix, the blend, the bitter cut of what’s soon to warm their turkey-like throats. Intoxication being the fallout from ideas of what you could one day become, what stories you could one day tell, what wonders you could one day make drawings and earthy paintings of… all the anticipations of the watchers and the waiters in the sky.
Copyright © Graeme Perrin 2023