The docile grieve sotto voce, thrumming
the sorrows in the shade of a lime tree and drystane dyke.
After all, there’s nothing wrong with being a little awkward,
like a former semi-famous adolescent birdwatcher—
never reckless despite youth—now a lean curmudgeon,
collecting lanterns and astrolabes, having realised that
not every message needs to be delivered.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 