Travail recedes into the deepening distance
A narrowing field of view, almost lost now Yet the world still shimmers with possibility
Save the rusty patina of coinage is nowhere
The meagre savings of old are depleted
And no dragons hoard can be chanced
What cannot be gained in haste or ardour
Cannot be spent; cannot multiply or help
The world thus in misfortune closes about
Smothers any declining dream of chance
Black ice sits atop slender silvered linings
And yet the enveloping calm is indefatigable
It sits in the still night and whispers awake
For what money cannot buy love provides