the tinker wends his way along the road,
alert to every chance and break he sees.
his cart protests beneath its heavy load,
as lengthening shadows beckon from the trees.
but time for him is not to waste away,
in branches green and fading sunlight red.
no, hasten on he must and leave his play;
the joys of being adult are his instead.
the birth of working life has now begun;
a prentice yesterday, but now a man.
all marks of youth have now become undone:
impetuosity is now a plan.
and like we two our friend the tinker knows
he's finished his beginning, yet still grows.
Your comments are greatly appreciated. nandor@wellington.org