The yawning track
Grasses sprout in open fissures,
Splitting wood within wood,
Compromising the even beams
Now there is so much of time.
This wooden path wanders far,
Its reach a vanishing distancing.
We watch dawn’s nervous rise,
The first birds attempt a song.
We won’t hear its distant rumble
Or feel its bass vibration travel
Because it signed off its journey
Several years back down the line.
It’s a trick of the light that brings
Steam, the roar, the whistling dragon,
For it won’t come calling here.
All we have is a solitary silence,
Broken by blackbirds and dry twigs
Snapping beneath our feet.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 15, 2020
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