By the trout’s tail the stone has been flung
From the tarn to the land where it lies
On a goatpat, (a pat of goat dung)
Where it’s circled by thousands of flies.
Now the stone it is so sick and tired,
Petrified, panic-stricken with fright;
For it’s either deep in the tarn mired
Or it’s blinded by brilliant sunlight.
So the stone would prefer a location
Where it won’t by the trout’s tail be flicked.
Just to rest and enjoy recreation,
And not be by a mountain goat kicked.
But it seems that the stone it is cursed;
Relocation for ever at hand.
While sometimes from the tarn it will burst,
Before long, in the tarn it will land.
Light to dark, dark to light, it’s propelled
Like a ball in a game of ping-pong.
Now to sit in the sun it’s compelled.
(Well at least till a goat comes along.)
{Here is a much better poem by a much better poet.}
dnobrienpoetry 