Michael Coy Poet Rhyme

Binnicky Barney

‘Twas high on Binnicky Barney
that I asked you to be mine.
The ear was on the barley
and the grape weighed down the vine.
The clouds were high, 
and so was I,
on whimsy, wit and wine.

A name is just a nonsense-game,
and love an empty snare:
and shame and blame are all the same,
but you and I were there.
In summer’s throes,
the fungus knows
its spores are in the air.

“Bryn y Cabanau”, so it’s called,
as per the ancient tongue,
and I was galled, abashed, appalled,
embarrassingly wrong.
For lovers’ lisps
are will o’the wisps,
and never last for long.

There’s merit in mistake, they say,
and losing leads to learning,
and every dog must have its day,
and every worm’s for turning.
(For all we glean,
we wish we’d been
a little more discerning.)

Solution is a kind of death,
regret a form of doubt:
and love’s a type of crystal meth
from which delusions sprout.
The pieces fit, 
but you’re the bit
I haven’t yet worked out.

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