I have soured on the taste of not enough,
curdled, clabbered, clotted on the knotty
view that discontent with every issue
non-aligned with my enlightened brain stuff
brings stupendous, bold new clarity.
Do spare the violins. Pass the tissue.
We’ve all been churned, known days both buttery
and sweet, but culture’s seeds grow in the now.
They draw no savour from remembered taste.
A finer state, perhaps, awaits the me
awake to fermentations that allow
uprisings to boil over, without haste.
I walk along, content, the bank of dreams
where all that settles lifts the richest cream.
© Elaine Stirling, 2016