A heavy tread, warning cracks radiate from a four-point rose,
fixed in sights. An uncertain north. True, the day follows senses,
high above us. Built-up places crawl across grey earth. Uniform
texture underfoot and above hide what we remember.
Better known than seen. Trails tie together, criss-crossing
over owned land. No flags, marked by older eyes.
Joined at dusk –blink between two turns.
Walk softly across a calendar, knowing just where to turn for
buried lessons. Warm southern winters bring colours to
long-dead stars. Night plays with the shadows, spin easy threads
in a childlike dance across boundaries claimed. Water returns
older lives in rough places. We drink in a wiser course to walk
directions that our skin remembers from ancestral light.