The Spoonbill Generator

South Margin Closed, Always

Every thing hath a beginning,

Too few things have an end

The middle is where opposites meet

and vanish round the bend

No one's had greater misfortune

Where corridors collide

than the good ship "Titanic",

Holed by her virgin bride

A good bargain is a pick-purse

Dry at the water's edge

full-ripe for one's own plucking

One's private privilege.

A trifle less than a bushel,

A shekel short of a shift

A smidgen, a pinch, a cupfull, an inch,

When drought has cut adrift

And I--some breathless crumbling leaf lost on a windy day

slick ice, sharp stone, wet grass, dark sky, a crumbling, dry clay

Each hoof that clangs quite wretched through the bricklined undercroft

Was never half as soft as those who thought I'd lost the play

Everything hath two beginnings

The middle's too soon for the end

The centre is where enemies meet

and press against each other to gain the greater measure

Of foreign pleasure

Contributors: Stacy, Roland, KD, Linda, P, jp, lucretia, TG.
Poem finished: 14th June 1997.