hobnails and dressing-gowns

Halfway up the sitting-tree
I perch among the flitting bats,
a milky river of stars above.

Leaning back
with one leg swinging,
my boot a hefty pendulum-bob,
I wonder;
If I fell out of the tree
– without noticing –
might I miss the ground?

I am, after all,
like Arthur Dent,
in my dressing gown.

 

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