Through snow flurries did they besiege the pang,
Though some crystals varied combined to gang,
This bull, his maw, both on the road they sang,
Blue odes, dreaming hobos, flakes to harangue,
Tunnels sheltered for half moments in route,
Past trees of he born in Goochland about,
Bridges over water toxic, closed spout,
Steep grades leaving sharp turns and steers in doubt.
Here now arrived serving to right the wrong,
Snow’s drift not fit to push cardinals along,
Crossroads highball given, golden the song,
Now gone, now passed do we hear the bell’s dong,
Flat roads stretching further ahead they go,
No more twists or turns that blight what we sow.
© 2016
The Tempo 