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.]