Gazing at blackbird on deck-side table
during cold November, tree-stripped drizzle
when dark clouds lower with dour bluster,
I like to warm my feet under cover
as I recollect childhood memories
of dim defeats and welcome victories
over obstacles armed with precedent
now buried in the muck of incident.
Time is indeed a fickle instrument
like barometer or thermometer.
We would prefer to transcend time and fate,
to defeat failure, indifference, hate.
Yet all we can give children is advice,
forlornly hoping constant love will suffice.