Wanderlust

Who administers to my needs?         Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that         yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen         suggestive of some actor's         smeared and garish make-up?         Or the cicada's song,         difficult to describe,         laundering thick summer heat?         Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly         especially active at the close of day and drawn         to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?         If none of these         breathes vigour or tonic         through my nostrils,         what of tubs of fresh water?         Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats         and children as make-shift sailors,         then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.         Bold harbours will be their cues,         astrolabes their hatchets in which         to chart many a perilous adventure.         A volume of Tom Swift and his Motorboat         tames the haggard breast,         soothes the savage beast.         A trip to the fruit-cellar         beaded with moisture         and clammy with imaginary threat,         chastens the cobweb from the         dusty ledge and sees a privet-hedge         hawk-moth trapped against the         window-pane (a dark spot pressed much like         a pirate's patch against both time & space).         If meandering and nearing journey's end,         think twice. Better red than dead. Brooding         MacIntosh apples stain a slippery floor but         the door to the orchard is always ajar.         By night, an "I And The Village" Chagall painting         draws a lad (and landscape) to stare and stare.         Thickets of wild-grape, strawberry tendrils,         two hares boxing in the meadow, a Winterspoon         or Whip-Poor-Will towering above groves of walnut, lilac.         Night air is fragrant (and lush) through a peep-hole         and gate-way to the stars.         Barns with ricks contain pitchforks         like a mis-shapen mask protruding ever         so faintly sinister in silhouette through         a visionary sky.         Remnants of ferret skin, lie interrupted,         upon entering the chicken-coop.         The soldier drinks, his tea and egg-cup abandoned.         I don't have to go anywhere.         Dark and moody, there is an         arsenal of thought with stout         marshal batons in my knapsack.         The power to be led (and lead)         stiff memory in rum kegs and wine casks.         The brooding entrance         to another world,         if not in the palm of my hand,         then very nearly         a shout and stone's throw away.