Smoke rises from the stone chimney
door creaking open, wrapped in a thick red scarf.
She steps onto the snow filled fields
crackling burning wood behind her.
To the north east, a dew dance across a leaf
bending it with its weight and hanging at the very tip,
slowly its weight bends the leaf to the surface
ripples outwards across the reflective surface.
I’m a wanderer with wear on my clothes
stitches over them and my backpack,
scars and memories etched in body and mind.
A stop is but a transit enroute,
a way station minimalist in construction.
Tracks in water, covered in sand, or afloat in the air.
A deer by the lake, ripples outworth from her mouth,
birds atop branches parallel with the water.
Up the stream bears relax upon the shallows waiting.
She walks towards the water
her clothes loose and baggy
carrying a basket with ease.
I’ve dream of fantastical places
seen a world beautiful beyond imagination
a world no brush can capture.
Wood slowly multiply by the cabin wall
an axe planted on a stump nearby,
an easterly wind blows across the land.
Cool and wet, sunlight breaching the tree line.
Fog dissipating and falling back into the woods,
small pearls shining across the grass.
A cry bellow from the cabin
Frost armour the leaf sides
like thorns on a rose
touching the lakes icy surface, fused.
Not a thing stirs
door creaks open slowly,
a child wrapped in a thick red scarf
weighting heavily on her shoulders.
From the shadows the lady emerged
fresh and filled with vigour,
she smiles at the child
as she plunged into the snow.
The train approaches,
the snow-covered easterly track clears as it rushes into the station,
the sand-covered westerly tracks remain still as the tracks remain barely visible.
I held her hand,
as the train stops before us.
My backpack stitched and weathered, hers’ new and freshly made,
my scarf still around her tiny shoulders.
The doors open
we step forward.
The train leaves the tiny waystation and its two tracks.
Heart Of A Pirate 