Alone and bent the seeker sits

Chair down, tip toed, poised tight.

To wrack the archives of distant endeavour

Where knees were scarred and battle bright

No future no present no night.

The putty knife picks the layers do  sting

The discourse is sludgy and thick.

Confusion, sympathy, love and regret

Lay down  the judgement of age’s malicious rage.

Yet how to delve in this richly mittened state

How to fly my motto gladly.

If all slips now will atrophy be

The state I have in store for me.

Mind’s flow thins back

With spiral, whip and flail

So tantalising and yet

There lacks blade’s blazoned edge.

Replaced by what:

Those motes and their dusty tease.

In it’s noiseless guile a breeze not yet do slide with silk across my sense.

No lies, no friction, no tense.

So tiny a deliberation in one mind or another

With quantum murmur of flight

Scents green scents ground.

Childhood’s timeless land.

A lost boy has been found.

©️. David fry 18th February 2018.