Eric’s Oboe

Quink writes all

the quirks of fate

inscribed on paper

to hang on the wall

 

tracing paper

with graphite smiles

busy rubbing

brasses in the crypt

 

turning the score

to find another page

from which to play

the reed is split

 

only harsh the

many tunes of fate

dealt by the Croupier

“Faites vos jeux”

 

unready the world

for likes of me

wandering forests

in the rain

 

there are not ears

nor enough compassion

amongst experts,

to hurdle vanity

 

the page wears thin

as the music fades

haunting, now distant

on history’s sails

 

time to pack up

the oboe and walk

with moccasin feet

once more

 

soft into the dream

gentle dreaming

back into Annwn,

where I belong