When the pen takes control.

Moist eyes appear sad

after the thrill of the chase

predator and prey

I was walking down the old farm track

when all the memories came flooding back

of the questions that we used to ask

like who would set themselves the task

of carving in stone a set of stairs

that seemed to us to lead nowhere

for at the top we looked all around

no signs of a building were ever found

and when we told our parents where

we’d been they’d say oh don’t go there

but they would never tell us why

and I’ll always wonder till I too die.

Never alighting

the swift will forego the branch

dashing in Spring air