Different roads

The sweep of road,

a gradient line

seldom walked.

The stretch of a mile.

Few cars hug the rising bend

in the morning;

by evening

they descend.

And in between the bulk of day

scarce are the travellers

passing that way.

It is there I found myself

sauntering with time to kill,


upon the wood speckled hill.

A dangling limb of weathered spruce

I snapped off and put to good use.

A gentry gentleman ambling

through his claim

with stick in hand,

a worthy cane.

While not a sinner,

but I,

did walk.

Nor other voice sound,

but chirp and whistle

of birdish talk.

For awhile it belonged

just to me

the hill,

the road,

the birds,

the trees.


About Penlateral

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This entry was posted in Creative writing, original fiction, poems, poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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