Hello and welcome to Cook and Crank, the Cosmic Poetry Podcast. I'm your host Simon Pole, the Cosmic Poet. In today's verses called Here Be Destiny, a wizard looks back on his rustic exile. What exactly has his life amounted to? It is a situation we can all relate to, even if we are not wizards with dragons in our stables. And perhaps this is something we all have to come to terms with, which we will do together after the break. In the evenings what to do, what to baste in what to stew, what to dust with flaming spice, what to cool on chiseled ice All day the sun beat my door, it warped my boards, cracked my floor, comes the night with its shivers, dark dank air it delivers. In a stole I wrapped my head, garish hat of kingly red, gold my vestment intermingle, dangling bells, jewels which jingle. Climbed I then to floors aloof underneath the towered roof, there to gaze upon the scene, worlds asleep, my heart serene. But my dog that yapping mutt, whom I had in quarters shut, a ruckus raised which awoke, a dragon scaled, kept in yoke. O the roar and o the sticks which were roast with fiery licks, also was an icy toad in the table with him stowed. Such the cares, a wizard's lot, I who had a master sought, in weird abroads, where hallow is said when you turn to go, and goodbye they hearty chime when you meet him the first time, and the beer they down at dawn comatose upon the lawn. Lively chaps I miss them yet, but I could not land it get, so was banished here to muse on the rare and rustic views, and collect the beasts below, those which in the forest low, some to collar, most to slay, and the meat in larder lay. Feasts well seasoned washed with wine, would me warm, though I repine for those fellows who now pass hours enslaved kings alas. Though unsettled and obscure, where the stables breed manure, the days at least spent alone in this tower are my own No king haulers in the hall, the hooting dove is my call to wake and rise later loons herald night with cryptic croons. Perhaps the years gentle firm have ammured me to the term of life as lived this to be measured out my destiny Destiny decreed you harsh to shackle me in a marsh yet my skin you rendered thick with the wind's persistent prick And my pleasures, biddling sorts, do you rival bustling ports? Not at all, but neither they dazzle in your elder day. So my duty I discharge, though the burden is not large, and its import yet unclear, still this is my unique here. You have just heard Here Be Destiny from the poetry collection Poems for Ocean. I'm your cosmic poet and host Simon Pohl. Visit the website Simonpole.ca for more cosmic poetry, including the book we've just read from. We'll be back soon on the Cook and Crank Podcast with more readings from the Poems for Ocean collection. Until then, remember, poetry is the water of life, though whiskey might be too. Goodbye.