From showers past that April brought
To heated May and oceans deep,
Fiction may depend on sleep
But waking dreams are not for naught,

Especially when on a boat:
What ups comes down, but tums adjust
When thumb to palm, while steel to rust,
Dances dust to stars remote.

And side with side holds holy tide
In soft perspective on the hour
That Big Ben on a digit tower
Marks with friction for their ride.