Six Across

A crossword life, words unfilled,
The sound of bagpipes is a skirl,
Primrose curves and daffodil.

The clew between my fingers fell,
Dead-ends deathly, I knew well,
These limits of a four-lined shell.

I stood at junctions, 6 Across,
Wished for stars but kindling loss,
Lichen-hair and eyes of moss.

Everyone has a daily circuit,
Cryptic, Quick, Acrostic surfeit;
A Bannock Fluke is Scot for turbot.

The queen bought with a rationing token
Her wedding dress, all silks bespoken;
Twelve down ends with my heart broken.

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