Quarter Past

Quarter past four
We’ll reach the sea wall.
Summits rise and fall.
Jagged cliffs do call.

We thread the needle.
Lick frayed ends
And see saw
Up and down,

Away from the little town.
Gears moan and whir.
The welded burn of metal
Smells of why won’t settle

On going back.
Our voices crack
With travel wheels
On gravel heels.

Lusty blue horizon
Open veins reveal.
Hung our hopes to prize on
Riding how this feels.


9/23/20