how long I stood
seasons hammered
although we had agreed
Should I write of this now
I do not know.
leaves drift,
Sometimes I feel
I have sought
All I know is doorways into the dark.
Since our roads are far-flung
I have wished to be a traveller
of old roads to the unknown
where only dark may enter where
golden suns merge,
between our worlds I do not know
flaking layers within and without;
wild storms burst forth
and I could find no rest release,
that the pathways left behind
must fall from need;
And I
must grow into the future with our seed
nurture him into an oak.
or when
grey is like snow,
wild creepers climb unkempt trees,
so much overgrown:
the roots of the house move about,
and I sit waiting for fulfilment;
is it my ailment that I write now, if so
to what purpose;
I have yet to find.