I am laden with advice
by those who seem worldly wise.
These men are loaded with vice
yet are keen to analyse.
They use the well used adage,
and plant the seed unneeded.
Alas! this sprout of knowledge
is better left unheeded.
Sweet and eager to express-
sour the fruit when in excess.
The fire is iced in the box-
unkindled lies in a lair.
Awakes when the desire knocks,
or hides deep inside somewhere.
Sometimes its fragrance escapes
as the ice vapours away.
Then this fire new attire drapes,
and no frost can make it sway.
Gloves are off when undisguised-
ice on fire or fire is iced.
She waits for the tide to ebb.
Old bones creak with every step.
She drags on with resilience
for the beach gives her the pep.
The days appear so clear now-
proof of a long pending vow.
Though dusk lures with its intent-
the wine does not tempt somehow.
