Sunday, 23 September 2018

All was not lost on me

All was not lost on me

Gnarled man with your gnarled hand,
bent upon your staff of ages,
dreadlocks unwashed, tied in a band;

can you lead us sir? For here we stand,
helplessly lost in old maps and pages,
we seek the valley path, that lifeline of hand;

for us city slickers, thinking we are so grand!
are hopelessly lost in an argument that rages.
Please sir could you guide our little band

down to the beach, to those miles of sand,
where the tides of life, in all its stages,
run along the shore; and with conch in hand

we will listen to the last of land,
the quince and sweet, sweet greengages;
for we have arrived, our merry band,

and my, oh my, doesn’t it look so grand,
ice cream stalls, all the flavoured sins of ages;
spades and windmills, cones on hand,
kiss me quick, here comes the brass band.

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