Humour: A poem 

One cannot filter grief through a sieve 

Its web, through a sky, it can weave 

With it, a mind can barely conceive 

the idea of joy, when joy takes leave 

Solemn is the hand at the touch of stone 

The chill of winter gets one to the bone 

Hope takes a beating when trouble’s drone 

hovers threateningly over one’s home 

One grits one’s teeth or simply sighs 

and wishes plaintively that one should die 

What medicine can be a cure for the sick? 

What spark can reignite one’s little wick? 

The pill with no side-effects is humour’s bit 

The slice of cake with icing is in the wit 

A little laughter can take the bubble out of trouble 

A dignified smile is like a spade clearing the rubble