Upper Heads Lane above Bolsterstone, South Yorkshire, England

           The Walk


             The spool’s unwound,

             the thread unwoven,

             the weaver’s hands worn out,

             the loom long frozen.


             What’s left is just a road,

             the one of a novel kind.

             Weaving turns to walking,

             non-spaced, non-timed.


             The walk leads nowhere but to itself,

             is not for usual flops,

             takes more than simple years,

             does not admit of stops.




               First published in Poetry Salzburg Review (Austria)