Saturday, 14 March 2015

What The Roads Have Told Me

I wanted to feel childhood for an hour
That the road was still a danger
And assume the kingdom of the country tracks
Kick stones, spread earth
No lines, or pavement.

The particular thrill of moving feet
Between grass and rock, then back again
Seems somehow at the roadside lost
Like the fox carcass has long-decayed.

The taxidermist now washes hands
Of exhaust grease and motor oil
On these lanes death has a kind of peace
The death of this commercial goal.

But personhood assumes the wire
Of pylons hissing overhead
The barbed fence not adventurous
But of ownership and fingers deft
To write
You cannot touch this earth
In spikes intent on drawing blood
Telling adulthood of what it’s worth.

I never was then
Very good.

For why do the buildings all seem smaller now
And my silent walk appear suspect
For there is no pavement for the lone

Attempting to be child again. 

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