A Whimsical Wander
When you have got over the trauma of birth,
like a four leaf clover, you know your worth,
come and see me.
When the wizard who turned out not to be wise,
the enchanter who drained the light from your eyes,
you are still free.
I wonder if we can weave our own myth,
and leave it behind on a loom,
for someone to find when they enter our room?
A silver tower stands on a hill.
As far as I know, it is standing there still.
More is the wonder and magic
that you were born
than to find the hidden vale of the unicorn.
A whimsical wander may lead us astray.
Where we go does not matter,
as long as our path has more green than grey.
Forests grow trees, hills grow stone.
Who knows what the wind grows
when it blows alone?
What an escapade we are on,
hardly here and then we are gone.
You could have said something
to make us all feel better,
but among the trinkets you left behind
not one gold leaf letter.
As much as can be,
I suppose we are free,
like horses who jumped over a fence,
to escape the confines of grey common sense.
That path that winds up the mountain
and down to the vale,
we can take tomorrow
while dawn is still pale.
Sensible cat shelters under the bush,
as rods of cold winter rain pelt down
on the mud and the mush.