Stride

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.

tk March 2015

*photo: Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth

A most lovely read by R.A.D. ...

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The End

R.A.D. Stainforth moistens dry words on the page...

I am the last

walk with you,

watch gulls hover,

cry sharp in habitual air.

Fingers in my hair,

you crown me

lover of the end ―

all previous castles

now wave-washed clean.

Already grown full,

there is nowhere else to grow,

but with you ―

legs stretch out,

like pink-colored wings,

rearrange the passage

between.

tk/November 2012

Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

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