For Paul Cowell,
September 21, 2014
Collage by Janice Hathaway
My drummer is my conscious
Floating silently along a bed of roses.
Good morning sweetie, it’s going to be a glorious day,
Skinned with a rough bark-like substance impervious to weather.
Because of gun shots and thunder
Once the sound of my drum catches their attention they cannot keep their feet on the ground,
giving rise to the notion of the flying dog.
A large swan that uses her beak to drum.
I was in seventh heaven when my drummer found me.
Ringing, rat-a-tat-ting with little fluttering notes that fade away slowly.
The horrors of the war, the whispers of the leaves, the roll of the waves.
Their hearing is so astute they can hear the smallest flutters as a shout for attention.
When pinned down and catapulted off into the night sky.
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