My westward paths by muddied fields,
The leaves turn amber panes in light,
Come displaced windows of stained glass,
Speak glory in a holy field.

So much to fit into a day,
Yet now the zip is wound,
The packing done, away
With idle moment, in with work,
Each time in time and places,
Well, the places are a gracious perk,
High spires and mottled bricks,
Old wood illumuned with the rich
Glow of hidden lamps and metal tips.

Good old head scratching fun,
Glaring long and hard at lines laid bare,
Yet cryptic to their author still,
At least they've custom colours though!
...a poor consolation from a head too scratched,
Aha I have it! ...wait no I don't,
And to and fro my mind does spark,
And the old head-scratching fun,
Seems stretched beyond its welcome.