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The wind takes us back
time and again to the place
where we held balloons.
In the gale, scarecrows
dressed in ragged overalls
are nearly all wind.
By the castle walls
coffins of the knights of old
are football goalposts.
The season's ended
leaving only graffiti
scrawled on urinals.
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Thanks. I try to remember the words of Jean de la Fontaine when I write: "Mais les ouvrages les plus courts sont toujours les meilleurs." Seventeen syllables (count 'em) is enough for anyone.
