At the Edge

The edge is where the balance hangs, I muse,

clasping bolt-cutters in a shaky grip.

My shoes are on backwards – leave no clues!

Is that a drone? On Guard! – there’s many a slip…

Humans are nomadic in their hearts,

we spoil our ground, up sticks and move along,

our curate’s egg is undefiled in parts:

clamouring for those, a mighty throng.

Someone always claims their piece of pie,

a fence is their preferred means of defence:

times like this call forth one such as I,

who act here with equanimous intent.

Yield to the Force,

let Nature take its course!

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