The audition is passed
As the breeze turns into a wind
This summer is not yet to its last
All sinned thoughts are to be rescinded
To sit among tree and varnished wood
With cobwebs and drainpipe looking on
I thought to buy, thought yes I should
Here to write, to put right all that’s gone wrong
Saturday morning
Yes, freedom is here once more
Sat, at this delightful diminutive desk
Views over Trinity
Then on to those faraway
Imagined sand-strip shores
Angels will be seen riding
Along the big skies next
A new pencil will be procured
To satisfy the writer’s perceived significance
Though truly the need for that is next to naught
Other than anything smoother, will aid the dance
