Van turned aside
In gravel margin
Flat tire, damn!
Right below the Guy’s
Favourite boyhood haunt.
An old stone castle
All but condemned.
Up they paced.
Higher than she
Had imagined.
Hillside mostly weeds.
She could see how
It deters an enemy ascent.
There, they made it.
Levered open wrought
Iron gate, black.
Handiwork still fascinating.
He wove a story
Of assault.
Longbow arrows straight through
Screams of defeat.
Gutterals, groans
Of all fighters.
So real. She wondered
If they might be in danger.
Honking of tire repair truck.
Magic evaporated.
As power pump turned on.
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