A day dawning
In fulsome gray
A fool yawning
Before going his way
Trim sure the sails
We’re going away
Shrill the shouting
To augment the hearing
(Under shorn of all standing
And half of the meaning)
Pushing at the bounds
All giving way
Hurried the parting
No longer cleaving
So much the pity
So much the leaving
Reckoning hard
Yet choosing easy
“Could I be wrong?”
The thought never sees me.
RWOz2
Watch This Space 