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