THE FLYING, SWIMMING,
On the surface of the water
it's flat-stones that I skim.
Picking up more, I find a feather.
In the beck I set it aswim.
The feather was once a flyer.
Now it drifts, like a white-swan,
to where the beck is much lower,
and where it will sink, like a flat-stone.
In the fine city of York
was born Guy Fawkes
though it's his death-days feted.
And it's in every town
the people burn down
his effigy. Loved or hated.
Cut the firewood, pile up the sticks,
let us have fun with dreary politics !