Reflections

It’s easy to get distracted

by the river’s gentle pace

as you try to match it

to your own. Like lace,

the weeping willow’s tendrils

drape sweetly on the water’s edge,

caught briefly in the current’s pull,

but, caught by wind, instead

drifts upwards, tangling others in its grasp,

then sinking down again,

once the wind has had its laugh,

to kiss the river’s surface.

Yet to watch this playful folly

on the banks of the Ornain,

I can’t help but feel a little sad.

For as I watch this game unfold,

(just as countless others have perhaps)

and the scene has drawn my gaze

to elsewhere but the ground,

I notice that my foot gives in

to something quite less solid than before,

and ere I look I know what I will see.

No, I am not the first to walk

this path along the shore.

Others have walked along this path before,

and not alone, if I may add.

Oh, what a fool was I,

distracted by the view!

For as you see,

I’m ankle deep in dog shit.

Oh, ça pue!