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