Whistle, little boy;
mummy told you the wind would carry you home.
A sound, drifting through the cool autumn breeze before somebody hears, swayed by the sound and dashing to your aid. You're carried on home-
to mummy.
But there is no wind,
the cool breeze turned to bitter frost.
The sting of winter has all but come.
Foolish child..
you cannot whistle while your lips are chapped,
while your fingers turn blue,
while your stomach rumbles,
while you shiver in your boots
–the boots that mummy made for you in fall.
I guess that means it's up to you
to find your way home,
but mummy didn't teach you that-
To stand on your own two feet.
and the wolf–
needs food.
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Tales Of A Poet
PoésieA collection of poems add short stories, some with a bit of a dark tone, some lighthearted.
