SLIPPING ON THE MOSS

I went walking the Hills, and then climbing the rocks,

And carelessly stepped on the Moss;

Who delivered a lot of unbalancing shocks,

While trying too much, to be boss.

Though I usually found my feet able to grip,

At this time, I started to skid.

So I panicced, and had to inevitably slip,

To land on my skin, God forbid.

As I fell down the hill, and continued to roll,

My body drew close to Split Creek,

Which would chill heart and body (but never the soul).

I felt myself growing quite weak.

I reviewed the deceptions of Moss, which pretends

To be rosey red, when it’s green;

So decidedly green, that it willingly lends

Itself to cause me to careen.

Though my injuries had been already accrued,

From bumps I sustained in the fall,

They were nothing, compared to what might have ensued,

In Split Creek, if I couldn’t stall.

But like Jonah, commanded to speak; but who had

A Whale of a time out at sea;

Still reluctant to talk, lest I make the Moss mad,

I suffered what happened to me.

I remembered the thought of a mountain top queen,

Before the fall sought to distract.

I rhetorically asked myself “What does it mean?”

And stopped rolling, ready to act.

Then, rebuking the Moss, I was quick to regain

My vision of queen of goodwill.

Then I thought (as I realised I couldn’t complain):

I might have climbed up the wrong hill.