Smoke signals

Ask what the sage would see with eyes that see right through me
to gaze at a twinkling star and that faraway look could write pages,
a book
that would be read for centuries to come.

The wise men who eye men to weigh up their worth
the harlots who scream at their birth,

who measures the value chooses the currency.

He stood proud among the wildness
his wife childless through choice.

Contemporaneous notes
could tell me
my medical history
Latin is a mystery and
I remain ignorant.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.