Alchemisland

Hunting the month

One crumpling blunderbuss crumpf and it crumbles

Timeblood runs which runs on time. Every schedule succumbs

To the realities of life; it – whatever – shall come when it comes.

My treatied distempers o’er-milden with suncoming

The wilder child, who, summoned, runs, begins blundering

Through my untied-shoes life-with nothing to lose thundering .

Tearing down bunting Maypole-abutting.