Prowling came the afternoon,
Knocking on the planks of wooden ideas,
What uncanny temerity of gloom!
Stealthily lay the channel across,
Water like silk in a charnel walled with suede,
Nifty crafting of sunlight on it’s brim -
Reflective of my pensive mood
A condor-driven barouche taking me across,
To Peru where I marry many maidens of muscle,
Penetrating the hollow of their harrowing deep,
As I Fly O’er the drover’s humorous hustle
Reducing it’s hush to an untraced murmur,
Was the whistling wind that never subsides,
Raindrops fell like chiseled silver splinters,
To much dislike of my faintly bribed brides,
Asphyxiated for want of a constant celebration,
I floated and gloated right through the dreary day,
I celebrated life through the gamut of it’s gestures,
Remembering not if it were November or May.
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