A crossword life, words unfilled,
The sound of bagpipes is a skirl,
Primrose curves and daffodil.
The clew between my fingers fell,
Dead-ends deathly, I knew well,
These limits of a four-lined shell.
I stood at junctions, 6 Across,
Wished for stars but kindling loss,
Lichen-hair and eyes of moss.
Everyone has a daily circuit,
Cryptic, Quick, Acrostic surfeit;
A Bannock Fluke is Scot for turbot.
The queen bought with a rationing token
Her wedding dress, all silks bespoken;
Twelve down ends with my heart broken.
