I never do know,
what I will write when I start,
and it’s a surprise.
The rain wash away,
what remained of their attack,
and it felt normal.
He rolled the paper,
and tucked it under his arm,
and walked down the road.
It is days like these,
he thought, walking down the road,
to the old churchyard.
The gate was heavy,
solid oak, that creaked alot,
as he opened it.
The graveyard before,
looked old and so inviting,
he loved this old stuff.
He looked for Evans,
Henry Evans was the one,
and there his grave lay.
And there his gravestone,
were the runic tales he sought,
but they must be right.
He copied them down,
each letter as it appeared,
then would disappear.
Most would find this strange,
but this what he expected,
and just what he got.
