Reality, reality,
Is only as far as the farthest tree
Or, on a  long and wearisome day
The next expected cup of tea.
It’s within the confines of how we play
As children attached to our scattered toys,
And the section between the girls and boys
As we grow up, and the World expands
To a reality each only half understands.
It’s when, as a lad, you played fast and free
With your father’s neighbour’s privacy
And now you are grown, and the same as he,
You rail at the lads who do this to thee.
It’s when they say they’ll need a mock-up
Of the project they have in mind,
And the result is a complete cock-up,
A scapegoat they must quickly find.
It’s having watched the World unfold
And cleaned your teeth as you were told
Then, having lerned so many tricks,
Start writing poetry at sixty six.

Reality, reality,
You have some of it so has she,
But none of us own it exclusively.
And when you reach your home, it’s there
Where you will hope to die one day.
Shall I meet you, or you me, where
The one has gone before to light the way.

October 1996