There are those old ricket, picket fences
Ephemeral suggestion of within and without
In a hedge wizard kind of way
As magical folk don’t hold to rational lines
Of either thought or being
And so the curioser, more the pleasing
On the soft sigh of liminal evening
The casting of spell without words
In symbols, and language of birds
Evoked
And feeling, the spirit has heard
So, as much then, is the art of spelling
To take the mind elsewhere by the telling
What isn’t and is, erased by what’s that
A question only the caster can answer
