A beacon beckons autumn a month before the climb
like a busy little bee drumming up an appetite.
How many times must the down be dyed
before the lowest of tides gets stuck to the sky?
We descend to the deep when them hills turn steep
and reach for the quill when the fleece won't leap.
He dreamt on the sheets like the waves on a beach
til the brittlest of his fleet ceased to leak.
Rise and shine, concrete feet, you were made to sink.
Took to the zinc like a Great to a tank;
he was bred to think but forced to shrink.
Everyday it's the plank, despite the wake.
It was there on the brink where he found his bake.