You woke in a hurry twenty years ago,
An ancient spell made you grow
Tall now, and full, till it hurts,
The earth you stand on can feel your curse

Blitzing, you play with your bad hand,
You do all that one possibly can
A golden bliss is ever near
But no pride dampens the dormant fear

So return to the olden ways
The decent home, the tempered days
Stop to reckon: you shall go on!
And drift through those spectres wailing swan songs

Now unending rhythm of swaying leaves
Calls you to find the sun in ease
Tread carefully for lying underfoot
Is the gentle vision you idly sought

The whip-through-you wind beckons season's change
A fault in the plan, the gods' yearly exchange
Early to slumber and last to wake
Dear old friend, why won't you wait?

© Copyright David Bosworth August 2023