home

my Wagon wheels will leave no visible

print in the soil

the rain washes roads away

my halting journey

printed in memories

will fade in the sun...

memories fragmented fractuals

no more than broken bits of infinity

shifting in the sand are wind blown...

I wonder if the wind will carry

my courage

more tested by

making my home in London

that it was in the wild freedom

when it held the smell of lion on my skin...

my wagon wheels roll on

and Brooke Green

will nor more nor less be marked my passing

than any space I have rolled through

but I will make a home there

for a while

to rest my tired baby

and then I will roll on

and find a big space

i can lie in

my body will indent the grass

and for a moment

and be home