Once in forever, behind a brick wall,
there lived a mushroom who scarce moved at all.
Each Spring it would grow from out of the ground
always all-seeing, but making no sound.
The grass would rise up, and so would the weeds;
flowers grew taller, so spreading their seeds.
But one year it thought, this mushroom, so squat,
'Why stay in this damp? I want to feel hot!
'I'm sick of the flies, the spiders, their webs;
long eve'ning blankets of shade as sun ebbs.
'I've been so content, but now I want more:
to burst into bloom, not shadow the floor!'
And so when the wall was brought tum'bling down
a smug little smile replaced mushroom's frown.
Its lamellae spread to welcome the dawn
and sheltered the dew all throughout the morn'.
But then after noon, in sun-blazing heat,
moisture escaping, it looked for retreat.
Its stipe rooted firm it longed for the days
when it hadn't felt these torturous rays.
It wouldn't survive in sunlight so bright
and after day one it welcomed the night.
Day two proved too much, in heat, shrivelled up,
this mushroom's chapter was closed, like its cup.
When next sunrise came the fungus lay dead,
both it and the dream had perished, instead.