Help is the hand of feathers

That worships by the scroll

And when the sunshine fades away

It worships not at all

 

Help is the heartfelt censure

That reminds of Censor’s, old

And when devoid of promises

It rends the Censor, cold

 

Help is the oft-used epithet

That means nothing if misplaced

And then help creates a modern ruse

And leaves an undue trace

 

And it can’t compete with courage –

Italicised and bold –

And then constructs a storyline

It knows will be foretold

 

A story of the birth of hand

That opens door to grace

And hope and bravery will knock

On aspiration’s face

 

That look be strong, at one’s own will

Which knows it can be done

Sense the Censor’s chill in summer’s warmth

And then the game be won!

Published by Owen Tilley