The Biding.

And here within the bidings, in the passing of the days

Where autumn now lies heavy, where love it holds no sway

Where letters that are written, but not meaning for to send

Whilst memories still unfolding, do weave and they do wend

Here lost inside the bidings, life in slow drifts on

But is missing all the poetry, the dance and too the song

I am left with just the question, concerning of my fate

The answer booms so loudly, ‘too little and too late’

Here down in the bidings, in a night that has no end

Another writ sad letter, not meaning for to send

Another darkened hour, a sad nocturnal test

Please bring me absolution, pray give to me some rest.