He strode as heir apparent to a memory

in galoshes filled with dust

and leaves of threadbare

thoughts.

 

Gravel, like a road of broken glass,

bundles itself together in

tousled lumps of the old roads,

gathering.

 

Footfalls, freshly faltering,

appraise themselves of what had

gone before – like a wagging tongue, never

still.

 

Even the magpies mock their

cowboy choir – their country for

cajoling cowards, crowing without

listening.

 

Crumpled into corners of hours,

crouch the days of famished weeks. Years

rake up from the ditch, staring down his borrowed

longing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image found here