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by Joal
Rated: E · Folder · Experience · #1535425
An ironic reflection of the drama of youth

At night I would walk all alone
(If the wind whistled past I'd not care),
To the old railway tracks,
Around and then back,
To feel peace in the cooling night air.

A gentle scuff on the old timber board,
Solid crunch of the stones under foot,
I would stop and smell,
As the silences fell,
Breathe the thrill of the night birds' salute.

The wretched, restless and endless days
Would reluctantly give over to dusk.
Then, as sleep came at home,
I would take off to roam,
And bask in the still night-time musk.

In the hours I'd walk my soul flitted ahead
To horizon - the vee-tip so far!
But daybreak would see,
Myself right back with me,
A bitter blow-fly in a jar.

So, the tracks were my haunt - the place I could fly -
Though anyone might yet still see;
A drab waif, chin lifted,
Who had simply drifted,
Down the tracks - just occasionally.
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