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It’s Sunday morning, one forty-five,
George has gone but the music plays on,
I was thinking it’s do with life,
That makes the very right very wrong.
For one may travel the entire circuit,
Raising flow and controlling card,
And now’t to complain or mirk it,
From perhaps a dim glow or challenged start.
Yet for some petite but ill-defined moment,
That seemed at the time, right and just,
The walls collapse in with a single comment,
That the whole life had been left to rust.
As the recoil batters all about,
The afterworld becomes no longer in doubt.
©R.H.Elliott 2001
