END OF AUGUST

​​Not all who sail hither go thither
Nor all those who wander are lost
Boats that are minded don't dither
Their bilges are safe from the frost 

Because I choose no fixed abode
Don't think that I cannot abide
To lay my head down and my load
I'm a gypsy come in from the tide 

I moor or move on as I please
With a lock or a weir on my beam
And I shall roam inlanded seas 
Til I fetch up on Fiddlers Green 
© SW MMXXv