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The Horse Stable
‘Live in the moment’ they say
but it's hard on a winter's afternoon,
inside, warm in a comfortable chair
when the mind drifts, wanders off
to find a park somewhere
at the end of a childhood street.
Dragonflies patrolling the hot, pine
scented air and sunk in the shade,
an abandoned stable thick in spider
webs and behind a half door,
a long, dark, menacing silence.
I never went in, held back
by tales of ghosts and the fear
that something lingered there
who did not like to be disturbed
by the trespass of small boys.
I would sometimes throw a stone
into its dark reaches and listen
for a stir or the sound of movement
or call out - is anyone there ?.
The air always bore a chill.
In my mind I still lean over
the half door and look in.
The dark has thickened
into an even deeper silence
and I can feel its cold touch
brush against my skin.
There are times I swear I can see
a glint as if something was caught
in a blink of light.
I call out - is anyone there ? -
but no-one ever answers.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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