He gave her one gold coin.
It was all that was left
Of the clothes she had pawned.
This text is a strange place,
Not quite home, but the words
May be well-worn old friends,
Not quite a dark wood, but
The sun-lit paths are strewn
With black trunks and grey ash.
The well-known and wind-blown
Facts are so mixed and snagged
On these lines like old rags
That the mind tracks by skips
And jumps, with no clear goal
But to cross the whole text
To prove it can. So, what’s left?
Can you get to the end,
With a coin still in hand?
