A Proper Gander

                                             A Proper Gander

He had a proper gander
to tell truth from slander,
but found only twisted wire
in a broken mirror.

His thoughts too apt to wander
to have a proper gander,
too loudly spoke the liar,
cold words made him shiver.

It was one dim December,
on a long road to see his doctor,
he looked up to discover,
a branch, thin and crooked,
blown by a recent wind
to hang high in the air,
caught on a telegraph wire,
trapped like a piece of abstract art
to admit he could admire,
unintended, created by chance,
by wind, branch and wire.
Looked now a fixed structure.
To remove it would require,
a man on a ladder.
It stood out on his walk,
looked odd, surreal,
a case of accidental art,
worth a photograph,
but he had no camera.
Maybe a concerned house owner
would warn the council,
tell them the branch caught in the wire
could be a public danger.
It might get blown down
by the next strong wind
and strike a resident or stranger,
or hit a car or house window,
and recommend they send a fire engine,
to take the branch down from the wire
by a fireman on a ladder.
Still it remains, a transitory work of art,
looked like a novel cover
or a shot from a film,
suggested something about capture,
failed freedom, isolation,
a near escape from prison,
the rags left behind by war.
It was worth another gander,
but left him cold, unsure.

 

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