Winds did gust; on Hawton bridge,
as the vests worked on,
next the sheen, upon the lake,
was a throne to swan,
its wings did flutter like a fan,
but heat; was not the day,
thus, its flaps; were like war dance,
shooing all away,
with that, my exit made,
my walk, turned into streets,
where empty retail units,
showed some gold defeats,
and that is when I heard him,
in village hall divine,
singing to a simple crowd,
their hymn, Sweet Caroline,
I heard it in his voice,
despair of wear and tear,
repeating the same show,
every-bloody-where,
no songs to tell his story,
drunks know what they like,
treated him like jukebox,
whilst overriding mic!
In mind, I did console,
for I too share the stage,
such a state of bland control,
that puts our love in cage,
hence, I did retreat,
hoping change would come,
then curtain clouds; did open up,
revealing warming sun!