Searching, I lift a pretty rock,
And Truth scurries into dark corners.
Like woodlice, blinded by the light,
My certainties of youth decaying
Underneath a granite burden.

When will the darkness come?
Shading me from the inquisitor glare
She gently touches me and I dissolve,
Laughter echoing upon the summer air.
I replace my rock and laugh too.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter in the end.

 Frog © 2002