Colin F. Jones

A LITTLE HOPE

It is those questions one should never ask
That find a place to rest beneath the mat.
For doubt rejects to undertake the task
Lest one stands at the wicket with no bat.
How sweet the apple washed of all its grime;
How pure the rose trimmed of all its thorns;
How lost is meaning if it fails to rhyme;
How gentle is the bull without its horns!
I pray to show my true goodwill for you,
I hope in order to declare my vain despair,
I believe because it is the better thing to do,
To pass the buck endeavouring to share,
That with which I think I cannot cope,
Which leaves me with, at best, a little hope.