The Passing of Places
Hugging
empty coastlines,
beneath waves
of wind,
sky
and place,
the yellow train,
stops
from time
to time,
beside
the hidden,
the silences,
the wind blown
sands
the hours
lost between,
without
a sound,
without
a trace.
For beyond
the forgotten,
the dunes
of memories,
the greying skies
of winter,
high along
the tides,
the future pasts
of shore,
the calendar
of seasons,
this late
November,
in days
of evening
left
to remember,
from those
who journeyed
this way,
so long,
and lost before.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
