The Poetry Corner

Twillingate

By Paul Cameron Brown

We all end up badly and it's not the season nor the salt rather, I suspect but type of gherkin used. We all end, badly, at least the more modest of us do. the old salts they dine on limericks anyways. We all end up, sadly, the distances and the wiles only last up, sideways, and barely with the edge-ways of a smile. Some of us, sadly, limit our losses call off the posse quit deals, the quicksilver steals. Some of us, gladly, surrender or catch a slow boat to Twillingate, if not willingly, at least painstakingly.