The Long Chalks

April 24, 2016 got lost
in the mists
on the long chalks
their rolling hills
like the ranges
of endless waggons
travelling endless
with their rolling wheels

Those were days
of endless treks
bundled against the cold
afternoon walks that begged
for reason

o why do I brave the cold
and the mists
that soak into the bones

so when the wind
blows across the moors
their empty cassocks of grass
and stone waving

waving indecisively
to and fro
I cannot but lose my way
but whispering to myself
there is nothing but to plod

and I love the shifting
breaking horizon
that meanders while I wander
down dew-soaked
misty, foggy paths

I love the endless fenceline
the grass and the willows
both waving, distantly gesturing
as if to an old, old friend
who’s been gone too long
to call by name


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