Tib’s Eve

There is a green hill far away, without a city wall, Where cows have longer horns than any that we know; Where daylight hours behold a moon of indigo, And fairy cobblers operate without an awl.

There, ghostly galleons plough the shady Woods of True, And schools of fishes fly among the spars and shrouds; Rivers run uphill to spill into the starry clouds, And beds of strawberries grow in the ocean blue.

This is the land of the green rose and the lion lily, Ruled by Zeno’s eternal tortoises and hares, Where everything is metaphor and simile:

Somnambulists, we stumble through this paradise From time to time, like words repeated in our prayers, Or storytellers who convince themselves that truths are lies.