Mystery. It’s all the same:
Questions without end or aim.
What will lead us to the dead?
Footprints in the flower bed.
What appeals were made too late?
Sift the ashes in the grate.
What was fatal in the mug?
Pick the fragments from the rug.
What has tolled the final knell?
Find the sexton and the bell.
What heart had become too fond?
Cast the net across the pond.
What act was misunderstood?
Take the footpath to the wood.
What mind had succumbed to grief?
Search the rocks beneath the cliff.
What was buried in the sand?
Shine the lantern down the strand.
Clues that lie as scattered as
The blown leaves across our paths.
Silence, speak. Wind, unwind.
Everything will be explained.