When the pen takes control.

And after six hours or more of crashing through the dense, damp, dark undergrowth with only a cheerless canopy of dripping leaves through which the light could not penetrate as if somehow day had become night whilst all the while imagining the sound of low voices and running steps behind and all about us, we came upon a hole in the thick hedgerow from which there came a small ray of light and as we cautiously approached found that the opening gave way to a view of fields and bright sunlight, as if in answer to our prayers, escape beckoned at last.

The voice of a parent I always feel

is probably the most effective panacea

just a simple phrase like there, there my dear

would drive away my pain or fear

now both have departed this life

their words still comfort in times of strife

In shimmering skies

sharp edges soften and melt

bright like Summer sun

I knocked on the door and there was no answer, as I expected for my friend seldom answered, preferring to leave the door unlocked and for his rare unscheduled visitors to enter unannounced thus not interrupting his long periods of deep thought, almost in meditation. “Batson!’ he exclaimed, lovely to see you my friend,” I heard him call. He could not have seen me for he was in the next room and I smiled for I knew it was almost impossible to outsmart Mr. Hemlock Soames, probably the most famous private detective alive in Victorian England.

Though not anxious

sweaty palms caress damp brow

reaching for the fan

mosquitoes drone in warning

slaps resound throughout the night