Maybe

I would never dare

To count

Myself as one

Of the Mabinog.

Not being, or

Sure anyone

Would recognise

Any merit or skill of

The Bard in this.

Or side with me

In saying it is

A work of anything,

Other than of my sole

Truth, known only

To me.

Then saying if it has value,

Is not of my tongue

Or reasoning.

For I am neither of the

Treetop

Or the dungeon.

More perhaps, captive,

Of the habits of a middler.

A functionary

Of the art,

Rather than one eho is at the acme.

I am ever present

At the day dreamers end.

I, having my back to

The taps,

Have no room

For manoeuvres.

I speak

As though there

Is a pistol pointed

At my head.

The urgency

Is tight lipped,

To my wishlist.

I speak out

More than in,

Because of impulse.

I read less into

These self including matters

Than a wretch in chains.

I am sedentary in my thoughts

And whistle along with the wind.

I am best among pilots,

As I was once dredged

From the channel of heart ache,

And landed

Full on with my waders pride.

I am as cryptic

As the morning dew,

And as advanced

As my worry beads

Have carried me.

I am where the Celts

Took root,

And am animated,

Soon to be free

To speak.

C 2019 Christopher Thompson

All rights reserved.

Bridgerule.

Devon, England.

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