With summer laze and winter days

we wend our ways 

in the silence of the night.

And creeping still, thoughts mill

amongst the dying of the bright.

But what comes will be and what be will comes

wrapped in tidy sums or on beating bloody drums

And the marching tattoo of things to do 

will come to me as it come to you

in the swill and fill of time until

The cup doth near overspill

and to fill the will with word until

the dark doth breach the light.

Yet in turn and till, things overfill 

and the day buck back the blight.

Word comes matched and values unlatched

while the babe crib-catched is snatched

And wending away he mourns the day 

when dark doth slay the light.

Born of one and child to none

he lift his orphan head to the sun

and say, " the dark and blight 

doth break the day, but the day

doth break the night."