He gently laid down his knife and fork.

Why the thought had suddenly occurred
he had no real idea, nor did he ponder
Stopping only to tie his shoes
he headed for the door, and yonder.

The evening was as cold as it was dark.

He cared not a bit, he barely noticed
as he strode off purposefully to where?
To no one he spoke, nor wave his hand
for he himself knew not till he was there.

He walked for miles across fields and hills.

It was quite some time before he slowed
and when he stopped he was thinking.
For he’d forgotten why he’d left his home,
he just stood there, sadly blinking.

©Joe Wilson – Lost…2016

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