Upon the river Trent,
ripples wholesome; formed,
such a pleasant dance,
in a world, that is scorned,
the rudders of a boat,
recalled a painful blade,
but drifted catatonic,
because the sound they made,
dogs and ducks; conversed,
with words, that could define,
a safer way; to co-exist,
to walk a better line,
then couples hand in hand,
again, broke solitude,
thinking twos are right,
and that ones alone are skewed,
up in canopies,
birdsong lit the ears,
made some warmth and comfort,
which wiped away the tears,
it was a Friday dusk,
Farndon was the stage,
easing such a hardened thought,
that was a bottled rage.