A pilgrimage of
marginal dreams.
Slumbering and slippery.
And no one to track the sins
of the truculent slum lords.
The aches and pains,
just drift along.
In an earthy bed of sleep,
fingers of Summer –
such sights and sounds.
Bestowing love and hope,
unyielding to a precise call.
A simple patch, of alluring sea.
Now, I know my way.
A Wandering Poet 