Well I did pen a Shakespearean sonnet. Not a romantic one, my apologies - my thoughts are elsewhere.
The skies above lay in a mid-day haze,
a lone cuckoo the tell-tale sign of May.
No clouds did meet my skyward-pointed gaze,
vast emptiness alone to tell the tale
from Swartkrans to the Tranquil Sea above,
from cold and hunger to security;
as fragile as a newly hatched dove,
as real as infinite pecunity.
Whither now? We've played four hundred parts
and many more, no doubt, are yet to come;
will donkeys riding on driverless carts
be all our epitaph will say we'd done?
I see a scarlet glow embrace the day;
of dusk or dawn? Or both? I cannot say.