The Gewgaw Poem by Clive Culverhouse

I sit upon a moment's tree
with a gewgaw in my hand
and pluck its reed rhythmically
to ride the distant land

the journ to drift her league to me
upon my tongue, her tongue
caressing sound relentlessly
harmonious lips in song

and while my harp does steer me so
to galaxies afar
many a darkness had me go
traverse the lonesome star

yet all the time a moment's tree
side on with roots asway
an afternoon belonged to me
that gewgaw had my day