“It’s sometimes hard to pick a bed and
most seeds have no choice in the matter.”
“It can even be hard to lay comfortably in a bed of your own making.”
“It can be the easy option to toss and turn a life of
endless mornings in another’s lumpy bed.”
“It can be the hardest option on earth to change the bed,
even by fluke …”
The Flukes of Dry Beds
A few fluke fantasists were drying on a bend
One fluke read out his fan mail from his final feather bed
Then woke to find that in the light he’d met his morning, dead.
Cracked bed forlorn feigned sorrow, felt his fellow feelings well.
Then tolled its final foldaway to fight fears of bed-hell
But filmed the footage for the folks that forayed Cable-Tel.And when hot’s footsteps stopped upon the crumbly top infill
The bedyard’s former patter tongues fed feet their half-quadrille
As phagophantoms all flocked in to take fluke’s eiderdown
A flow of funny water slightly freshened all around.Some new fantastic friends awashed with fantasies, no frills
Brought pennies from a heaven fall of fluid from the hills
By fluke for fluke and River Bed cold comfort flooded brook
And all forgot the sacrifice their fellow flukes partook.
I was visiting a nearly dried up river where, like rock pools on the sea edge, there were still bits of water holding waterlife who’s hours were numbered. I couldn’t save my flow of tears for them – too salty 
There was a fluke there. I could have given it one last drink – a donation. I didn’t. I let it go.
That river sometimes runs with water. Once, it always did. I think I know it’s progress to use water for irrigation to feed humans but I also know it’s folly to make fellow creatures homeless and to kill many more
When all my stanzas go as well, I’ll publish or I’ll not wait till I die and bring in an Editor/ Co-writer for re-writes.