There is a man in the stocks.
Ostracised, exiled. What you will.
Following dusk I visit and we talk.

There were love poems I was made to see
heartache believing buds by spring
made to open

There is a man in the stocks.
I imagine the torment and wonder
how he survives. I cannot sleep.

I am unsure of much he would say
it is like the irrepressible echoes
of classic texts.

"I can no longer work under my own name.
I will use others, perhaps yours.
You will wake to your morning
but I will be gone."

Hedge birds sang, I shot out of bed,
past jingle-jangle shops, bongo-playing cars,
gasping on fumes, tripping on plastic.

At last, out of breath, I saw
what I knew I must- the Bard was gone.
Somehow I reached home, shut myself away.

Now I bring these lines to you, my friend.
We have our precious question 
to handle carefully, together:
the crafting of tomorrow.