It Wasn't There

It Wasn’t There

It is morning now - the mares

Run after what isn’t there;

Fading into the night’s torment.

Now, the sun calls out to seek

A perfect moment.

And so, off to the fair.

It wasn’t there.

Then paused for liquid blues

Everyone looking too, drinking booze.

It wasn’t there.

Running hard; going fast past wounded fields

The road is open; the road is closed

A cemetery where the dead ends

No one there has any more friends.

Stopped to a place with plenty of figures

That tip and balance their character triggers

While the day withers away into night

The mares pawing at the ground, awaiting

The bugler’s call to the next page; translating

A man’s fright.

It wasn’t there.