Not heard, nor told of by the light of day
A writer to his place returned again
where busy things had yet to leave their stain
and worked alone as was his cherished way
And left by dawn, for was a creature fey
there had captured stray and childish thoughts
of whose simplicity others knew not
Discovered where, by light, the children play
When dawn graced leaves, had fallen the night before
Red gold sunbeams danced on newly embered trees
Those scattered, sleepy ones alit from their doors
And gathered there, from their beds by sunlight seized
Nought remained of the writer whose place they shared
But a few white pages, scattered by the breeze