THE GEOGRAPHY JOURNAL
The geography journal
read by the colonel
fills him with yearning
while turning the pages.
It takes him back to ancient
ages, when he was a youth,
enthusiastic, uncouth,
in far distant lands,
his soul a rubber band,
stretching, returning
to deserts burning,
to polar caps melting,
to volcanoes belting out
pyroclastic tunes.
The geography journal
read by the colonel
falls to the floor
as he begins to snore.
The maps fall asleep,
the contours drift deep,
the wide oceans fade,
the sun rests in the shade,
and he lies dreaming
of glaciers steaming
under mechanical moons.
SOCKS FOR BIGFOOT
In the woods
from tendrils and twigs
and fibrous figs
with the deepest of sighs
I could if I tried
knit some nice socks for
Bigfoot.
But whether he’d thank me
or simply growl
his indifference remains to be seen.
It’s a hairy situation
and a delicate scene
when Bigfoot is offered attire.
How would I acquire
enough yarn anyway?
Size one hundred and nineteen
needs a knitting machine
powered by the steam
of an improbable dream.
Perhaps I should purl
with a faraway twirl
and fibres made from seaweed
and cream?
Bigfoot dwells
in the shade where no bills
are ever paid
unless they belong
to big birds.
Barefoot and quite proud
he roars rather loud,
menacing textiles and thread.
So I’ll stay in my chair,
catch floating hairs
from the air,
and knit a small hat
instead.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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