What governs the soul
no two being alike?
Do the words that I stumble on
pave the way to any place you knew?
This page being blown in the wind
is picked up in the street
and read by someone
who doesn’t know me
but knows this feeling
what it means and where it leads
This person has fading memories
of loving someone new
then stumbling and not knowing
which way to go
The page is like an empty frame
It has neither views nor guides
The pencil scratches bluntly on
And our reader reads
then gazes down the street
to see some meaning coming
cycling along
in the form of someone familiar
So memories are cruel
It’s an acquaintance who reappears
like a cat at the door
seeking to know what’s new
Grant Duncan 24/12/04