When whistles are shrilling and thrilling the blood,
their echoes hanging in rancid air;
should ever the fear quintessentially bold
and thus ordained, should ever you care,
will follow a heart beat or two steps behind
as rain never floats, or lakes fill with brine
and bitter sweet are the taste you will find
that true love once tested falls foul in one’s mind.
Perhaps it is a matter of trust?
Sometimes words fall into my head. They did this on my way home this evening as I watched the most poignant skies over the blue hills around town begin to release their tears. (I really should be concentrating on driving, especially in those conditions).