The Gong

Had I been told at two years old that I alone made ordure,
So that for solace summoned I the tiller of soil, Georgia,
Whose sanitary raking rid me not of shame in going,
In credence, when I shared this urge with others before knowing,
Then I would have reason, something that accounts for empathy,
Tenderness at the notion of inevitability.

Metanoia

Cunctator, contrite,
Entering each decade
Sooner than he might,
Resists in retrograde
His growth's advising,
Is still, with grace delayed,
Self-aggrandising.
Repentance that put paid
To relapsing pride
Indentures, but has made
Him near-edified.