The crumbling well worn path has weeds

and cracks strewn through its disjointed route

and I find it difficult not to fall in, to step away from

the gaping, yawning holes and the urge

to attempt to smell the ugly flowers, attractive in

their resilience and keeping away,

shyly and with purpose from the roses that bloom

on the safe and preserved verges.

 

The path has not always been friendly,

on some occasions I have strayed too close

to the middle, where the traffic, the bikes, the skateboards,

have come too close to knocking me over, spinning

with violence into the infinity

and at others I have been pushed with green eyed envy

and unjustified rage towards a turn-off,

the cul-de-sac where dreams end.

 

I look back and see the route I have taken clearly

but every so often I feel there was

a signpost missing, a misplaced direction

offered with a snigger and cupped hands, the dig in the ribs

to keep quiet sending me off course

and yet I soon caught up, I still have the map, the atlas

opened up before me and whilst I may lose my way

every so often, I keep plodding on to meet up with you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015