Roll over a rock,
And what will you find;
Someone not
In a rational mind.

Where do we find them,
These  sad sacks;
Standing with placards
In the pumpkin patch.

Holding up fists,
Ready to fight;
A left jab will settle
The flails from the right.

They hang around schools,
Ogling their chances;
Using bibles as tools
For sexing defences.

They call themselves patriots,
Heroes and martyrs;
They're blowing hot air;
They're political farters.

Our heros keep exiting the stage,
Leaving us their music, art, film, and literature.
Their athletic accomplishments,
Their political discretions,
And hidden battlescars,
Their scientific and medical wonders.
Our ancestors left us the wheel and fire,
The family unit and our extended compatriots.
A good lineage always starts in the cave,
And helps us make it through the night.

Those two are so often seen,
That one might see them as one.
One wouldn't, one said,
And one would be wrong.
The other said, Yes, one would.
One won't.
We know.
It's all show. Civility. Cruelty.
One knows.

The message was as legible
As orbits in astrophysics.
The syntax was true as
A mathematical equation,
Not calculated by accident or coincidence.
And precise, announcing,

HAPPY VALLEY NUDIST CAMP

Boldly, on a southern hillside,
In white-painted stones,
On Hywy #22,
On the crossroads between youth and age,
Doubt and confusion.

The stones are gone.
Picked over, or, rolled down the hillside.
And the Hywy is hardly used.
How. By accident or happenstance?
Or a higher intelligence orchestrated
The arrangement of the stone message.


And this happened outside our town.
On the road to London.

We were here first.
     I seriously doubt that,
     but, for the sake of argument,
     let's say you were,
     here first.
     So?
     I was here second.
     This isn't a race.

Mammy died years ago,
So I'm older than her now,
Though I never feel this way.
But I'm younger than my father was
Years after his delay.

I'm an aging Granda now,
But I seldom feel this way;
When in my memories,
Where they truly lie,
I'm still their son today.

Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow and the following day.
Last Friday. This Friday. Next Friday and the following Friday.
Last Week. This week. Next week and the following week.
Last Month. This month. Next month and the following month.
Last Year. This year. Next year and the following year.

That's quite a bit we pack in,
In the two years before we're three;
The last decade, this decade... and the next...  maybe,
But the following is for others to see.