Pink Floyd, when pigs fly.
Putting on a purple flowered shirt
And easing into grandpa’s Knickers,
I strapped sidewalk skates to my feet
Vaulting into glorious free space.
Flying pigs zoomed passed my eyes,
I marveled that they could fly,
Witches on brooms rode round the room
Where giant butterflies covered the sky.
The world was a Pink Floyd dream,
For nothing made any reasonable sense,
And nothing would ever be as it seemed.
©2011, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 