Moat

Mellifluously mellow this musty old moat rises to receive us. Wants to swallow us whole he does, but can’t for we won’t let him, won’t give him any feet to lick any legs to seize. So he wallows and wallows, pitifully wallows this moat, and wallowingly complains about his lack of feet to lick.

            All he swallows nowadays is air. Swallows air he does then burps, this mouth only moat, burps and pardons himself not, this mouth only moat, swallows and wallows and burps and complains of lack of feet is all he does.

            We sit around, friends around the fringe and tease him with our feet dangle, dangle just a foot maybe even less above his hungry now burpless surface. No more burps here, no air’s gone missing lately. So he complains again and we tease him with our feet dangle, dangle almost but not quite splash, splash and he must be getting very hungry by now licking his brown wet always lips at the sound of our feet not quite splashing still complaining as he ripples against his wet rocky shoulders.

            “Who is this moat?” you ask. “Mother moat, father moat, who were they?” you ask.

            “Mother and fatherless both our moat,” I say. “Moats are not spawned but dug then rained, but who dug and which rain, I don’t know,” I say.

            And you say, “An orphan moat then?”

            And I say, “No, not orphan. Wombless.”

            And he still complains as our feet almost splash, splash his placid but greedy face.

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 Copyright © 2007 by Wolfstuff

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf 

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