Short Poem Poem by Steven David

We were mid-way through some kind of quest,
when my nasal hairs grew coarse,
and though t'was still faraway,
I heard a drum's rat-tat.

And while walking round a gallery,
'An Oak Tree' was the piece,
a glass of water on a shelf -
and at a given height.

Yet I'm still to be convinced,
that the cosmos is not flat,
or that nature is an automaton,
to do with as we like.

Through the curvings of our airways,
we drink that we may learn,
the tilting of the disciplines,
the tilting of ones hat.