Old Cauldy, drunk on half-past dreams,
Woke sharp to sunlight’s sober beams.
His boots were tied, his shirt was clean
An interview? Can you see the scene?
No whisky breath, no slurred excuse,
Just hope the clung like his new suit.

Now Ling, his wife, near dropped her spoon,
She’d stirred her fears since last monsoon.
Yet there he stood, a brand new man,
With trembling hands and half-baked plan.
She watched him go with cautious pride,
And wiped her hands though nothing dried.

Outside the house, the world still spun,
But something shifted in morning's sun.
Cauldy’s steps were unsure with grace,
A touch of pride on his grim face.
And Ling, alone, just breathed in deep;
At last a promise he might keep.