They do so quicken
to warn don’t they?
‘specially those that
have never dared or
worse, but sadly, onced.
Their protests hatched in
close spun spinster webs
who cry out not to reach for
the light because, oh dear!
Look at last time!
And if they had their
weary way hearts would
be cordoned off by
orange traffic cones and
a lone stalwart guard
motioning passersby to
move along now folks,
move along now,
nothing to see here.
Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. His poetry has recently found homes in FIREFLY, THE FAT DAMSEL, BURNINGWORD, FIVE2ONE, MAD SWIRL, SICK LIT, LEAVES OF INK, ODDBALL, WORDS DANCE, QUAIL BELL, CORVUS, FOLIATE OAK, BIRD'S THUMB, FINE FLU, DASH, LITERARY NEST and AMARYLLIS. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of the world, where he watches the sea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet.
