Dalton in Furness, England
Those who search, may not all find,
Answers which just spring to mind.
The fruitless waste of perspiration,
In search of unearned inspiration,
May redden eyes, against the few,
Who toil not, but somehow do.
Invigilators scowl, accusing of shirking,
The answer’s right, but where’s the working.
When instinct dictates, no need to consult,
True innovation may be the result.
That’s not to say, the toil’s in vain,
For hardened fingers reduce the pain.
And if we hope to reach any goal,
That we aspire, at all,
Proves we’re searching for soul.
Envy not they, who stand ahead,
But give them thanks, for they have led.
A crumb from each may join as one,
To nourish, till your journey’s done.
And if you ponder, on resignation,
Think hard, what was your destination.
What was it first, which drove you on?
Ah, now you’ve remembered.
So carry on!