I’m sitting on a patch of grass
Beneath an overhanging bough,
And, as the clouds of reason pass,
I’m contemplating here and now.

I should be doing this or that –
Or so my inner bullies scream –
Instead of making like the cat
That doesn’t even want the cream.

But this is how it’s always been;
I’ve never had the burning drive
To bring a record harvest in
Or show the world that I’m alive.

And now, at least, I’ve reached an age
It’s less a problem being sage.

Photo by name_ gravity on Unsplash

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