Here’s another poem written in the style of a ballad, with a hint of mystery.
So when will we come back, she said,
So when will we stray?
The oaks grow round the shack, she said,
And the night kills day.
There may be no return, I said,
But we’ll stray for sure:
Or else the tower will burn, I said,
And the moon will lure.
So will we find the stone, my friend?
Will it brightly burn?
Or will we waste to bone, my friend,
Lying in the fern?
The stone may not be found, my friend,
Not in shack or sea,
Or in broken ground, my friend.
It may never be.
So let us rise and go, she said,
Calling in the night,
For what we do not know, she said,
And a dream of light.
Copyright Simon Banks 2012