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,

isolated

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.

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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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