‘Poetry’, she chided. ‘This you’re to write’!
Late into the evening and under the dim light;
Yet what remains unwritten? What’s new to say?
Can one influence man’s steady state of decay?
Pan, Mark and Mencius, so tradition has held,
Each had their own way, three shepherds in the dell;
Rivulets daily seeping lowly into the mire,
Concocting their brew, still yet to transpire;
Each their own methods, each their own style,
‘One man, one trade’, planners – can these reconcile?
So up with the dawn, and out through the gate!
Objectively view the true global state.
Write not didactically, keep an even plane,
Each day part in shadow, and so it’ll remain.
Hastily put together on a blustery November morning…