Twas a bitter night,
earthworms driven deep,
swifts and swallows flown from sight,
few nuts laid to sleep.
On the road well-trudged
shoes sliding behind,
crowds into my face misjudged,
to their rhythm blind.
An all-weather pitch,
hummingbirds and rats,
a carpet woven eldritch,
oodles of green hats.
Twas a spark, a flame,
kindling wood for home
way beyond a trace of shame,
whispering coxcomb.
Too many good people
abroad with wisdom,
blessed good loving people
mend sorrow’s kingdom.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 