Seasons, cloud banks, grave routes
The stillness within wandering
The traces of us
Roads are sidetrips, doors another weather
Who thinks of the rose in the dark?
The symbolic, just a dark plate
To be roadworthy in ways and means
How to know
White dust haloes round your feet
The city’s memories in bullet holes, wreathes and chisel marks
A half moon, again
A tiredness between sleep
Those beliefs in old landscapes
This is a little something from a sequence I'm working on; some parts of it are based around my recent meanderings around the world.
The above extract was worked up from notes written while in Paris (hence references to white dust, cemeteries and bullet holes etc) in September/October during the northern hemisphere's autumn (as in, they do seasons differently up there).