I actually wrote this poem last night, but I’ve done more editing, and I’m calling it my poem for the day.
I think it was a skink, That scuttled
across the path, as i made my way,
to newsletter’s next delivery point.
The creature vanished under one
of the rose bushes, lining the way
from road to council office.
The copies are delivered now,
my work done, Conversation regarding
the new look of the newsletter
I’d delivered, over. We’d marvelled
at the colour, where black and white
had always been.
Now I’m somewhere else entirely,
Half listening to the entertainment,
But remembering, and wishing
I’d taken a snap of that skink,
to grace next month’s front page
in glorious colour.