Greacen034

Preface for a Poetry Collection

The arrow, shot by practised hand
That many times the selfsame route has chosen
Flies winged to that point exact
The hand decreed. Yet further flies
Towards unknown infinity, a blue-grey blur
That in the mind's unmapped.

Each poem is an arrow, too,
Shaped for its definite flight
Yet hiding a most secret destination
Even its own maker cannot know.
Speed then each poem to that knowd point
My little cunning can command -
And onwards where you will!