We, the scribblers of hope, burdened by unrelenting sunlight,

have longed to say something you will listen to
and scrawl our words on scraps of paper or type them neatly
so they are readable and easy to understand.

In awe of the soaring spaces of aeroplane heavens
propelled one would think by endless energy and enthusiasm
tuned into a station plausibly wheezy with breathlessness
we are writing our epics addressed to optimism.

Among the pleasures of the road up ahead we expect
the openings of for example marvellous boutiques of shells 
and brightly-coloured plastic by glistening celebrities
fervently umbrella'd with luminosity absent any penumbra.

Unencumbered days, we are in constantly silly love
with all our hours enchanted by so many smiling teeth
it's as if all the toothpaste commercials from television
were compressed into one immense and wonderful life.

Our epics of optimism roll along concretely. I am so happy 
I don't know what time it is, or phase of the moon, I'm even
over the moon to find almost fresh lettuce in the refrigerator
and enough water in the tank this evening to fill a bath.

Kitty is fine now, too, all her misplaced baubles having been 
located. And finally she has accepted the wonders of science
do not contradict the existence of a deity, as well as the fact that
the bicycle is a natural evolution of the horse into the modern world.

Let me introduce you to the sky and its cotton wool clouds. 
Over there is a flotation device wrapped around a salivating child
and there is a gem of geometric precision, a-sparkle at each point, 
and there is a swan processing its marvel into the infinite distance.

But what you want to know is does the top of the tree actually
touch the sky, am I right? The answer is what you want it to be
and if your heart is in the right place it will never be the same 
twice. By the way, the tree is your friend and so is the sky.

Do not be concerned if there are more answers than questions.
The number of questions is greater than you can imagine
and the methods by which we enjoy them increases as we grow 
closer to ourselves and approach the lighter than light.

It is incumbent upon us to contest each negative emotion 
but nobody claims this is easy to do although once you understand 
the sheer weight of enjoyment to be gained overcoming them 
it will be impossible to go back to hiding abed curled up like a baby.
The days when moss grew between our shoulder blades 
and bats visited us for darkened conversations at night are over.
We, the scribes of brightness, will write our epics of optimism  
in defiance of our true feelings which have always to be concealed.

Majesty must be defiant. Glorious sunrise manufactured by window
salesmen, shovel-loads of glamour, parental advice noted but gleefully
ignored. Yes, we have read the leaflet you gave us and we admire
your ambition but deride its scale, which is nothing like large enough. 

Summer is coming, you know, and we are planning to serenade you
with elegant phrases to massage the inside of your mind
because to be comfortable in your skin is angelic, warrior, bejewelled
by baubles, and all white and hot passions pleasurably nurtured.

Always be grateful, by the way, for any gift of music or lyrical grace,
blessings granted by an idea way beyond us. Nothing can take 
our beauty and its appurtenances away unless we close our brains. 
All we need now is for the choir to wake up to make our joy complete. 

We, the scribblers of hope, having longed for so long to say
something you will listen to and understand, scrawl our words
on scraps of paper or type them neatly so they are readable
and we will assemble them later to form our epics of optimism.

   Martin Stannard 2014