whereby all that is West of hereabouts,
Is a haven for scoundrels
“That’s as maybe, Poet Isaac.” said Poet Quin.
“But, have you ever seen,
Or even ‘been’ further West of here?
I fear that your words
Towards the vagabonds of the Western World
Are just pale imitations
Of words that have or wouldst have been.”
“And I would like to say something here…” said Tim.
“But, I have nothing of interest to say.”
The others both looked at him.
“Thank you, Tim.” said Poet Isaac. Your contribution, most helpful, has been noted and considered by the rest of us here.
Now the mist it is building; high time for you… to disappear.”
And Tim did just that.
“That was clever – if a little bit harsh.” said Poet Quin. “Do you think we shall see Tim Tadjle again?”
“He shall return when the mist does desist.” announced Poet Isaac.
“For the once and future thing
That Tim Tadjle
Will always exist.”
Poet Quin considered this.
And life went on.