What well of joy become,
A simple praise.
To melody and hum,
The soul is raise.

Play beside the setting sun,
Painterly, a drama for the bell-
-y, filling up on weary drink:
The madness of dear friends.

A tragedy without reprieve,
No villain schemer dastardly,
But as the violent depths to turn,
The worthless things to polished stone,
No evil thing, no justice bent,
A crime without a criminal,
A fiddle without care for rhyme,
Just leaves a stifled hollow vast,
In place of sorrow cutting fast.

Putting in a shift,
It falls like rice into the pit,
With wealth of knowledge, practice, time,
All tumbled out of reach into the bleak
Dark recess of this preparation.

But I will see it on the other side,
When all is sifted through to glass,
When gold and silver flow with ink,
Upon the summit of my two year bout,
Where I grappled with my very mind,

And learnt to focus fastened as a hunter,
On problems on a page,
On ordered scribbles in the white.

Sunnied heads,
Bob along to thudding steps,
And greener fields find wandering impressions on their face,
Dodging horses now long gone.