I
remember lots of happy local locusts.
Thick
as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
And
two short planks.
But
happy certainly. Eating their greens,
Enjoying
each others’ company.
So
happy they didn’t know they were happy.
One
holy day we watched them swarm,
Shove
off, scarper, push off, hop it, skedaddle,
Buzz
off southwards.
The
locusts were leaving the locality.
When
they swarmed they ate the sun,
Made
a someone-scored-for-England noise.
One
moved they all moved
Southwards.
No
locust any otherwards.
Which
had me thinking deep and clever thoughts,
You,
let’s face it, Piggles, could not share them,
About
the unfailing logic of the earth.
You
sat on your question-mark tail, waiting for supper,
Thick
as a dozy locust but less happy,
What
were you good for? I asked myself.
.
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