But in honours the star they reach,
Sure made their children to teach,
Once it sparkles so did their eyes,
Then to a father they rise,
His minutes the hours the minutes his,
There stands outside and walking this
Man who knew not where to sight,
Beheld cranberries soaked in light,
For his half and children poured,
Stops short his breath; tears soared,
Passes the mulled wine their holy ester,
Is not what he’d dream have in Leicester,
Continues his walk homeward bound,
Knew not to where his home be found,
Still he brushes against wind, rain:
Heart beating; fast yet, not in vain,
Writes his first words dawned to rest
By fingers strokes the keys best.
Either they endure this day for them,
Or endure more in lack of them;
But more is what more them more,
Beneath the crowds lay one in bore
Thought to try them lest, lest,
At lone is the one to smile best,
Though wishes none were never there,
Though thinks not for none to bear
A word that he would nought to take,
Ere reveal that smile indeed is fake,
Ere walks with but only a phone
Pivots on his hand is he alone
Taps gently, escapes slowly another,
Reads a few, wonders why to bother,
Captured by words he scarcely knew,
But ere attempt is he the phone threw,
Sees but whilst in search is lost,
Observes through himself he accost.
Those words and then thinks afar,
If not to seek truth a farce,
Rounds to that same room in dark,
Dimmed by tablelight in the dark,
A soothing Beethoven to conclude,
Is nor less never far to include
A sound to sleep upon this silent night,
A man in the dark lone this silent night.