If I think it will be
and the thought is
worthy of me
will it be so?

A question to slow Sunday down when the world's spinning too fast, a crust cast on the rippling brook, a hook.

Reel me in I am caught,
the answer is not what I fear, but the riot of questions which rise on the incoming tide brings to me dread,
better to be living,
much quiter dead.

What I think's not the question or the reason to be
alone on the storm line watching the sea as the sea watches me waiting for the answer, but what will the question be?