Walking one of your Favourite Walks, Through the twisting bends, Your voice To me Talkes, I consider the soil, trees and rocks, Hold memory's, Whispering On the Wind.
I have seen grown men throwing stones into still rivers rivers that are tired of running they watch small birds feast on smaller living things they breath out a steady stream of blue sadness they sit in cars reading Kerouac looking up at long naked legs they have outlived their fathers idea of youth they have played the puzzle of insolvable love they are lost in quiet rooms they ask her politely to leave they wait for the dust to settle … Clay.M