woven rugs and pillows beside hills where
goats dance.
I have lain nestled and hidden
behind warm humming signs telling of
comings and goings.
The traveler’s night
always new, slept away believing
in no rest for the pilgrim:
Lifted like wings by jet engines
covered and reclined between destinations
soaring through the moon lit clouds.
Hugged by a twill hammock hung
from rafters below a rusted tin roof.
Stretched stiff on polished wood floors
under a polyester sleeping bag.
Pressed against windows on trains and buses.
Snoring and dreaming on someone else’s couch.
The journey carries me on, restless until I arrive.
© Gabriel Forsyth 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment