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)