It doesn’t seem like a brick wall but I
now suppose these eyes don’t know
how to view something more subtle -
in idyllic days of earlier maturity our
wonderment was such fresh feasts
of intrigue, time the only thief, & we
didn’t need bell and whistle to tell it -
there were hollow logs to hide in
enough to know its a brick wall, tap
it with your walking stick; see, it isn’t
hollow. Dead give-away. For some I
moan, it wasn’t there until your tap
echoed all of those worst fears
© 23 April 2014, I. D. Carswell
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