First, I notice
the easy stride.
You move mainstream.
Two long steps for each of mine.
I think of the time
you wander to Birmingham
for that first punk album―
coins in your pocket
like the silver your grandfather earned,
walking nineteen miles
straight up the middle of Yell
to fiddle for a wedding.
Those boyish endeavors bring you luck,
make your heart beat like a drum―
ancestral rhythms, word of mouth,
a fine-tuned ear.
You offer me your arm,
my feet barely touch the ground.
We dance a simple reel of lamp-posts,
paving stones, letterboxes―
speaking of―we
stop the incessant writing,
to walk what's left of our wits.
to walk what's left of our wits.
tk March 2015
*photo: Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth
*photo: Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth
A most lovely read by R.A.D. ...
