We were given the phrase ‘If on a winter’s night a traveller’ – strangely this came out as a poem, though I don’t write poetry

If on a winter’s night a traveller
tap, tap, taps at your mind’s door
Take a chance and let him in
Do not cry ‘nevermore’

For he may have a tale to share
that speaks of days gone by
To tell the who and how and when
but strangely, not the why

Who it was that did the deed
Who was left behind
Who the villain of it all
Who was naught but kind

How could this all come about?
How did that begin?
Is this the end result of virtue
Is that the child of sin?

His whispered story draws you close
in spite of any doubt
No matter what the words he speaks
you have to hear him out

But he stops before the ending
Before he tells you why
Infuriating? Yes it is
If you can’t find out, you’ll die

You have to know what happened next
But he’s back out in the night
You cry “Why did this come to be?”
“That’s your job,” he smiles. “Write.”