The
crowd was only a crowd,
Containing, as usual, no-one,
And, being empty, was loud,
And fun being had, time crawled on.
And then was
ready: a sea
Of
faces parts on either hand
And lets through one who’s to be
Your pilgrim, you the promised land.
What comes
thereafter no-one knows.
You two rhyme and the rest is prose.
But if beyond I can’t see,
This I can:
to the dead of night
Your face had brought an air as bright
As the way you look to me.
John Gibbens
