poemimage

When roadblocks appear.

Roads go to funny places.

One returns to a place.

I remember you burned the soles of your feet during coal walking at the weekend seminar.

Somebody stole your expensive Turkish sandals and replaced them with flip flops.

You didn’t stop walking.

We discovered a comet fallen to the sidewalk.

And then a colourful one.

You were afraid it would burn your feet.

You said my skin had cracked.

I touched my arm. It felt

Like a fallen column in the library at Alexandria.

Though not as old as a comet.

As old as the sidewalks put in after WW2.

On the roads that go to funny places.

Where you walked and kept going

After I stopped.

*

and

we

did

have

joy

*