Into crimson quarters our planet divides
as I decide it’s high time my
feet I should find
Should I mind when
every other rhyme
every writ, every line
stems from a shrine facing south
Aligned with house of equine
Centaur spirit still soars aloft
as the kites o’er The Wharfe

Feet found, heels dug in
I begin to swim
Not sink and spin beneath thin
ice abandoned in Summer’s gaze
And in a haze, I hastily add
that the sadness which drove
me slowly mad as George of old
was no doing of yours, truth be told

Emboldened now
Older somehow
I stare into futures gate
and await belated
statement of truth

I got their in the end
carried aloft on wings of memory

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