The Girton Poetry Group

Not Averse

[He’s sound]

He’s sound.

Sound as a pound.

Solid as oak from his scalp to the ground.

Fresh as the day although freckled and browned

And frowned.

With the royal standard let him be crowned.

He’s the real thing.  He’s renowned.

He can run, he can swim—he’ll never be drowned.

You strike him and deep crystal bass-notes resound.

He’ll never lose time, he’s carefully wound.

A finer example will never be found.

His talents astound:

Listen

to

His

Voice

Opening like the sky opens round

-ing a road as you reach a bay and the sought-for sea.  His sound.