2 May 2016

CYCLIC


Pause on Poets Corner,
hear the one o’clock gun.
Grey cobbled tongue stretches
downward into distance,
as terraces domino away.
A safe haven, a corridor.
Faint echoes of doorstep voices
lost now in the breath of
time and progress.

Rolling home –
tires bouncing, careless
in the heat of the handlebars,
toward the silent red castle.
House of four doors
first green, then red -
Stopping.

Returning to a home
lost now -

Except in memory.