Floating on restless waters, tonight, broken moons breathe in waving clouds; Time is a colander, through which life escapes, never to return; Yet tonight the beanstalk remains tangled; I sat watching swans in the moonlight where the canal and stream met; Rock the boat! Peace is a botheration. Could the road that diverged loop back to the fork? Walking backwards, tonight, leaves and assorted bits of paper fly forward; After the off-licenses close, someone's dashing for the last bus before dawn, running in reverse; three hooded figures lost in the cemetery, walking backwards; The moon weeps tears of mist, that ripple spreading inward in the puddles after the rain; There's a weeping firefly crawling in the sink; Or the kitchen-lamp? Bubbles die to the siren-song of crickets. Is there is an Ithaca fabled?