The sky purple, bruised

The Sun hidden neath a far off hill

A ships horn thumping out

The vagrancies of its life

The Turkish delight of doubt

The bridge, a connection of dreams

Dreams that are dreamt

In heavy nights of thought

Thought that may break a back

Too often dreamed, too often sought

Have I grown old in all this time

Have I become an older man

Gleaned or ungleaned skill

Sunken foundations of Adam’s Ale

Or has it been a deadened thrill

And tonight in delicate Istanbul

With the eastern winds and Western views

Have I been reborn in hopeful certainty

While standing in the middle of a market street

The Turkish delight of my own vagrancy