Would but we wore that wool with a will,
us but a flock ‘neath the cross of a hill.
No more wishing wearily, waiting, watching
the water walk west past the weir
well worn
and rubbish running with it.
Picture now:
The Summer bank’s drinker in limbo.
Writing about drinking and only rambling about writing.
A damp footed colossus.
Heels between but neither being
‘neath the navvy’s buck wild swallows,
nor the noble bard’s swimming pen.
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