The written words

I had a feeling for print, not new but urgent.
It was ferried by thoughts, cold from being stuck in muds of memories.
I only had words to bring it all alive, such inadequacies. What else could I do?
By the time I'd written its vague translation it had fled to the bogs or maybe deeper still.
I sat haunted by its wonder. I felt like a used vehicle; almost violated by its touching.
How long should I mourn its escape?
I re-read my writing but already it had grown stale.
All I had as evidence were these words.
And those who read them would never know what attachments they had had.