The undercurrents caught his drift.
Threw him as a shuttlecock, chucked into the wind.
The child laughed with crazy grin.
He raised and drew his bow and arrow.
Fired it hard.
Bang on target, rising.
Flying through the air.
He tumbled as a limp rag, whirling to the ground.
The child collected him.
Dreams of pigeon pie flashed before his eyes.
Gave mother the gift he had acquired.
Found a number so he wired.
Only found post mortem, as he grinned with childish wily eyes.
For he had shot the messenger!
Can you see it in your mind.
Seek it out and you shall find.
(c) Livvi