Sandy sickle trickle flows
by Jonathan ROBIN
from sure to shore which no-one knows.
Time rhyme measured by man’s mind
soon carved in rime is left behind.
Children that man, spendthrift, sows,
confirm or turn initial woes
as to his heirs ‘the undersigned’
entrusts whatever they may find
to prop or rock, to open close,
to greet as friend or treat as foes,
to spur ambitions transient, blind.
Spun cause, effect, as they unwind
may opportunity disclose
to seek behind rind surface shows,
discover meaning silver-lined...