For Cat Stevens
Where do the children play? It
Certainly ain’t here no more. Perhaps they are
Busy throwing rocks, brewing
Hatred, and sipping malitohv cocktails. It would
Be absurd to think they still drink
Tea with the tillerman.
He’s moved away; he’s gone to safer parts.
Would you blame him? Rocks litter
The tracks; in other places they have been
Warped. Smoking holes defy any passage
On the peace train.
Hey, Cat, it’s a wild world, innit?
One hellof a world(which is they all
Say where everyone will go). So maybe
The children have looked upon us, seen
The adults hurling rocks and insults, arguing,
Blowing each other
to bits. I hope they have seen this
And laughed.
Grownups can be so silly sometimes, huh Cat?
Tags: Poetry
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