The Toss

Cecil John

It's a million miles from Here to There,
And not a soul who's here to care

Whether I sit by my lonely fire
And smoke till the last grey ashes expire,

Or whether I go down the narrow way
The goats spring up at break of day-

Past the huts where the thatched roofs gleam
Silver-domed in the moonlight's beam,

Past the shambas where shadows deep
Beneath the broad banana-leaves sleep-
On to a hut in the thorn-tree glade,
Where a brown-skinned, ankleted, slim young jade,
Sulky and supple, is waiting for me... . .
Well, shall I go? . . . Toss a coin and see!
                                  Cecil Fohn