Shovel out
the rook-black rain,
best travel light,
a cause unlaboured.

slavered at
the kissing-gate,

for sights that pull,
these paper hands
through cataracts
of fuddled scurf,

a road to chance
misunderstood,
and all because
the footsteps hurt...

it's Love and Hope,
those well-worn soles

that lead us ever onward...