Your book is taunting me.
Bright blue cover, hidden meanings
inside a passage, inside a word,
an attic inside a loft, inside a castle
and I barely find my way out of the maze
in the garden, secret holes
in which wait to be uncovered, yet
I have neither knowledge nor clue
in how to peer through
the remains of the branches and leaves,
the web strewn across
from spine to leaf.
Your house, a treasure island
built on an estate,
no guards, all welcome
to view the finery on offer;
yet here I am on the edge of the maze,
perplexed in sorrow
as I cannot see a path
up to the door.
Ian D. Hall 2017