November 29, 2015
in the old oak
it was carved...
"where were we..."
in the lake marshes the wind curled a howl rain back at us,
the air was driven with stubborn and did not wish to be
carried as if for drink from a well, refreshing like, no, it
liked spiked tided tied mooring tight...
what night might often beckon us
to steal into when we fear something
in the dark comes tagging along
in all our searches
for riches and legend...