You Better Run

Cube to cube to cube

through captive trees

sudden ponds

butterflies, crickets and dry grass,

dogs saunter

following their tongues.

Inside-children wondering, wandering

under calls

parents, owners

masters calling.

The sun new on the left,

morning shadows on the right

foliage remembering to turn

even when joggers lap a second

third turn, ‘round the cubes.

Empty mountains

on the horizon gone.

A new day.

Who is too proud

to feel

what they are.

What lessons

turn instinct

opaque,

to a squishy rag

left for dead.

How do the cubes

silence fire

placate discovery

wash so clean

that blood’s deemed dirty

and examination

quarantined.

[Caleb Garling is a journalist/writer and author of The St George’s Angling Club, a novel about the outdoors.]