I move in widdershins;
my gains ever loses.
Would that were the
other way ‘round,
then there would be never loses.

Then I could have a plan,
then I could follow the salmon;
one last pitch at lasting measure,
one last throw across the plate,
one last stroke at persistence.

Which way is time’s turning?
Is forward not behind?
Which hand holds the Bashful Royal?
Are all the cards stacked and shuffled?
Oh, come and deal another hand.
Oh, come and deal another hand.
Are widdershins turning ‘round?

© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved