Her feathered eyes and parted hair
a clean stair from soul to soul
I gather her story in one deep breath

For what I see I’d pay in high cheshire
but gold will not beget this passenger on
her pound of thought now tolls my tender
and trucks of gold this weak man renders

She fains my post and turns to perry
me not carp nor thatcher nor mason
but a king in quarry I press occasion

Rarely denied and rarely impressed
but now like a steer am guided down this gate
to protect our needs and bond our future
forever.