The bitter shocks they enter;
the ships of far way:
That sail into parted mountains,
those ships of far away.
That do not see the seasons,
the regulars of the café;
The minds of men who race
to lie where earthquakes play.
The sun shines here in daytime:
the men whose minds race
See nothing in the sunshine,
they see no end, in place.
The bitter shocks they enter:
They wear lines at dawn.
They sail from quiet mountains,
Changing the rook for pawn:
The piles lie here at dockside
and wear their lines of god:
The old men only play checkers:
the old men play only checkers.
Colin Fine
June 1984
(c) Marc D. Beaudin