If granted all the Grace of God
And the charterer’s benign skill,
No end of teasing powers for this pod
Could come near to giving me my fill.
Words are unsatisfactory lovers –
They skirt the question that must be so uppermost,
Poorly they try to extend the peak of my druthers.
Love, leave the soul searching to our admirably languid host
All would be wasted on such a spindly youth.
With age comes the travailed experience of strength;
Don’t pause and be confounded by a mysterious untruth.
No plumaged cock is prouder and with all the honesty that weariness imparts
Let us wrap up the blanket sky of the Lord’s sigil to embrace our hearts.
Art: Marc Chagall ‘The Birthday’.
James Walton Poetry 