The Toss

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