I did not travel far

I did not travel far

but the places I went held a receding path
and I could hear the singing of eagles,
which is a gruff song, with some blood,
but it sounded strong, very strong
I walked a city street and saw a man
that was mumbling, he was mumbling
to himself, and he built a paper house,
which I found diverting in a city of stone
and a woman sitting on her front step
was reading a book, aloud to herself,
so that she knew someone was listening
I saw rain trapped in a parking lot
and flowers growing in a cement crack
I did not travel far,
 just down a dirt road
where my bare prints stayed behind
and I was happy, with the heart of a bird
and the voices of the river rock
slapping against the white water,
on to the edge of the ocean
where nothing could be still for a moment
blue touching blue against the horizon
and small things in a spring and autumn
of migration and movements,
and I fell asleep on my travel log,
the one with the recipes
of a dream I am keeping.

Reviews

[Helen Crutchett]

Beautiful write Phibby! I especially loved the last few stanzas. Well done!

[cest la vie]

Such a simply, sweet poem.
"I fell asleep on my travel log,
the one with the recipes
of a dream I am keeping".
The lines are wonderful. Nice write!!

[LJW]

Your mind is a precious thing, Phibby. I love all your writing.

[Jibey]

I charming write... capturing the detail of everyday scenes with their unfailing interest ... the words moved nicely from the seedy contrasts of the city to the fresh blue of the sky and the cleansing ocean... and then, there they all were, collected in the recipe boo... just lovely!