The Tale of the Probably-Bread

It was the sort of day that dreams might mould—
The wind had turned a lovely shade of cool,
The clouds (what few were left) were cumuliform,
And finches pecked about for crumbs of bread—
When, with a shriek, I sent all peace away,
And hushed the songbirds’ whistles, trills and pipes.

Now I, behind the radiator pipes,
Had fair reason to break this charming mould,
For all my tranquil hopes were tossed away,
And, throwing papers down, I lost my cool,
Quite certain that the dratted things had bred
And gobbled up a somewhat vital form.

My frantic searching now assumed the form
Of feeling, grudgingly, behind the pipes—
And here I found The Thing That Was Once Bread.
(I think—it’s hard to tell with that much mould.)
My hand withdrew with speed as something cool
And rather moist went slithering away.

It was a fool to try and get away,
This godless fungus, hideous in form!
For I, with no attempt to keep my cool,
Groped once again about those grimy pipes,
Now grasping for the hyperactive mould,
Quite sure I could outwit cognisant bread.

Lamentably, it seemed The Thing had bred,
And, as its many offspring crawled away,
I knew I couldn’t overcome the mould
Unless I had a weapon of some form.
Again, I left the radiator pipes;
The room was calm once more, the breeze still cool.

So I returned at last, prepared and cool,
And, fly swat at the ready, faced the bread.
It cowered spinelessly behind the pipes;
I pitied it as it quivered away
And knew I could not splat that quaking form.
Instead I left unharmed that gentle mould.

If I’d found somewhere cool to put away
The bread, I might have found that vital form.
Alas, the pipes are still peopled by mould.