‘Lose your words in a high wind’
Farewells flung at parting trains,
And thrown from cliffs
To sailing ships.
Retorts muttered as asides
The thees, the prithies, the thou arts.
Radios left on;
No-one hears, forgotten song.
I asked my grandad where they’d gone,
Where they went
All these squandered, wasted words?
He smiled and winked a knowing eye,
Before he gave this subsequent reply:
“My boy,” said he, ”these wasted words, as you say,
Are wasted not at all,
For each and everyone of them,
Is completely recyclable.
They board passing breezes,
And are whipped up in high winds.
And so they journey to the sky,
To the lexical Lost and Found they go,
(a place of which few humans know).
Here they’re stored amongst the stars
but seldom are they claimed.
Despite being perfectly alphabeticalised,
In cloudy cabinets in the skies”.
Here he paused, strangely lost in the cosmos up above,
“But these words do no stay,
To fester and to vegetate,
The plumbing’s poor, there’s often leaks,
So they return, mixing in the air,
Whenever it precipitates.
They amalgamate, they merge, form foreign links,
Only to once again be gathered,
Into our vocabulary”.
I asked my granddad how he knew,
And why he looked so strained.
“My boy,” said he, “It’s I who edit the dictionary,
And it’s just begun to rain”.