Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Ferrier of fortune,

fingers stiff with age,

your horses gone to pasture,

shave down the ever-diverging day,

shape it according to health and desire

the songs of your youth

are not yet lost to yesterday,

they too, have

been passed along,

translated from

string and harmony to verse,

plunged into the inkwell,

spilled joyfully

upon my page