Morning mourners come to terms with their birth.
Toddlers clamber up shoes piled up in the corner of the room;
Start school, risk getting into trouble or not, do their homework,
and love most things that go crack, bang and boom.
Later and well before, flower bulbs are lobbed into the sea.
Seeds rain down on seaworthy upside-down roofs.
Everyone needs money, or something to get something, a currency
As wine bottles twirl round daring them to tell truths.
Over time, flesh drops off bones as skin gets torn.
Brains bubble and boil in jars hidden away in treetop laboratory hideaways.
They retire or die before, expect the unknown, finish their days.
The only thing for sure is running away to the fair will be frowned upon
and, even contemplating it, will be treated with scorn.