Sometimes things don't go, after all
from bad to worse. Some years muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high and all goes well.
A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough; that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.
Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.
My favourite poem - by Sheena Pugh (born 1950) - I spotted it on the London Underground. It's a pity it's not better known. I wish I knew something about her.