The Fulmar's Wing Poem by jim hogg

There is a green hill by the sheer
and final choice that overlooks
assaulting age and edges near;
a certain view I’m tending to.

The codes are old that predispose
a man to think of bargains struck,
of honour lost, one deal to close
a story running out of luck,

but not of hope for some years yet,
though dragging out I couldn’t stand,
beyond that testing chance beset
when I at last forsake your hand.