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The Little Boy Lost: A Poem

John is a freelance writer, ghost-writer, storyteller, and poet. He always tries to include a message or social commentary in his writing

I'd Like to Thank My Muse

I have no idea what inspired this poem or where the idea came from. My muse often works in strange ways. That said, I was quite satisfied with how the poem developed and I hope you, the reader, are too. Please enjoy this short story verse, The Little Boy Lost.

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The Little Boy Lost

That morn I went a'riding

Over craggy hill and dale,

My steed was steady of the hoof.

I shall recount the tale.


The soupy mist had settled low

Enshrouding all the moors,

I could only see mere feet ahead

Though it barely caused me pause.


For search must I, it was my bind,

My child had gone astray.

To find my cherished son alive

I hastened on my way.


Just three years and one month of age,

Young Heath my only child.

He'd wandered off during the night

Into the Scottish wilds.


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Hark! What's that? I heard a voice,

A cry for help, maybe.

I turned my horse towards the sound,

In a clump of nearby trees.


"Heath, my boy, is that you lad?"

I called into the fog.

A hooted answer met my ears,

Just a frogmouth on a log.


Despondent I continued on

As the mist began to ease.

My horse's hooves sank in the peat,

"Lord, let me find Heath, please!"


Dismounting to proceed on foot,

Horse tethered to a tree.

My prayers were answered in God's time,

A small figure I could see.


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Warding off the Winter chill,

Huddled tight into a ball,

The tiny waif who was my son.

He hadn't heard my call.


I raced across the soggy ground,

Scooped Heath up in my arms.

Cold was his skin, but misty breath

Proved him free from fatal harm.


I carried him back to the horse

And kissed his tussled head,

Hoping he would be OK.

Then "D..daddy?" he said.


Two days have passed since that event,

Heath has recovered well.

Although grounded 'til the age of ten

He'll have quite a tale to tell.

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