With summer laze and winter days
we wend our ways
in the silence of the night.
And creeping still, thoughts mill
amongst the dying of the bright.
But what comes will be and what be will comes
wrapped in tidy sums or on beating bloody drums
And the marching tattoo of things to do
will come to me as it come to you
in the swill and fill of time until
The cup doth near overspill
and to fill the will with word until
the dark doth breach the light.
Yet in turn and till, things overfill
and the day buck back the blight.
Word comes matched and values unlatched
while the babe crib-catched is snatched
And wending away he mourns the day
when dark doth slay the light.
Born of one and child to none
he lift his orphan head to the sun
and say, " the dark and blight
doth break the day, but the day
doth break the night."