From our red tower
We have the misty power
To travel across the land
In letters written by other hands

Feeding on the feelings
Held in human dealings
Sometimes travel with the sadder letters
To help wee sippy ants feel a little better

Other times we hitch a ride
While our sack fella drives
See the sky, see the flowers
Visit tribes in other towers

Different tribes
Different scribes

Nights, demystified, we show ourselves and joke
Pretending to be the carefree faerie folk
To gaseous intoxicated sirs
Or click clacking yellow hers

Day, a cock-a-leeky Dalai Martian marked a spot
I took another ride, to see what he’s got
At home – a bone
Round basket – a throne

Night, garden, watched hedgehog and fox
Under stars, counted, thousands, stopped
Inside counted spots, then fell asleep
Woke when sleeping dog chased a sheep

Dew diamonded morning brought me back
To notice a notice, the message was black
Elder’s called to divine the dealings
But I already kenned the feelings

A tribe meeting was called the same day
I silently sneaked and snooped the nay-say
The tower would be closing down
No more letters would be round

No letters
No feelings
No food for us

Starvation, in a nutshell, the death of a clan
‘Another tribe will take us,’ said Tiny Man
He was the tallest of us all
It was funny, being so small

Different tribes, confined
Cramped all the time
Their towers not a viable move
A hundreds of us, so what to do?

We went misty blue, like a puddle from a shower
Joined together and said goodbye to the tower
Slipped into the sack
No looking back

Sack fella brought us
To the Sorters

Elder tells them just –
‘Pass through we must’.
‘You cannot stay here’ –
They make it very clear.

Sorters, distant kin, hold us in parley shade
While a deadline, an ultimatum is made
Seekers sent to see what we lack
Heads bowed they come back

Same story from all posts
No room, no hosts

Distracted by a glow
Investigating I go
Feelings strongly detected
Human stuff suspected

Standing on the shoulder of a giant
I peek-a-boo unshaded and defiant
Sorter tries to shout me down
Tells me, ‘stop playing the clown!’

Quiet! I quells him, ‘something here!’
Cowed he mistakes me for a Seer
P’haps he is right
For I see’d the light

Mist-me and glow bind
A new home I find –
Lines, thousands, on which to feed
Feelings abundant to fulfil our needs

Straits of starry stuff stretch out all ways
Paths to leave sack fellas dazed for days
Pages gone, letters remain
Billowing through my brain

I phase back, and whisper, tell others
Mothers, sisters, fathers, brothers
Sons, daughters
Not the Sorters

At night, we sneak away
Glowing lights light the way

Food for us

Obviously this is influenced by reading Terry Pratchett books for years. I’ve decided to include this and other recent attempts at poetry in my forthcoming collection The Sun and the Rainfall which will be out soon(ish).