9 March, 2017

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