An Armada of Leaves

The mind at play.

The armada of leaves is anchored on the puddle.
Long passed living, these ships stir in the wind,
a ghoulish testament to the giant protruding towers
which birthed them. The crack of thunder or
the first cannon.

There is the barren beauty of a watery expanse.
And the sky soaks the world anew with fallen
tears so that other such seas and lakes
can form upon the pummelled pavement.

Cars making guttural noises, they shiver and
sputter through these old, urban streets.
Disturbing what was temporarily idyllic.
Some ancient scene.

Alas, I'm just sat here in the rain, dreaming
of heroism upon the high seas, swinging
swords of steel, ascending rope to the nest
and surveying... giant, swimming monsters
exchanging black balls of death. A mourning
language. Or murderous tongue.

While people with briefcases find themselves
stuck on carousels of mundanity and bureaucracy,
no expectations of slaying anything
beyond their next pay cheque.