Young man walks, his face to the sky,
Bag on his back like an anvil,
Head bent to the hurricane eye,
His captured birds a lonely weight.
Casts his eyes to the North and East,
Waiting with each step for the stars,
To open like a magi’s spell,
Their night-buds closed like blind men’s eyes.
Hangs his words on grabbing branches,
Which brush and scratch his sallow skin,
Remind him of the days when he bled,
And his hands were smooth and empty.
Beyond the trees, he knows the streets,
Their brick-heart faces staring still,
From day to night, to emptiness,
He looks away, he knows their ways.
Carries his bag beneath the stars,
Like the red ore river that cries,
At night on the mountainside,
And walks with his face to the sky.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019