it stretches far and long.
My eyes are wearied by the watch,
my world is still and dull.
Horizon hovers high and wide,
it reaches round from view;
the road still lingers to the edge,
so empty, sad and bare.
I wait. For what? I hardly know.
My mother left me here,
upon the road of childhood,
close-brushed by forest fear.
And still no shadow on the road,
the years wear shabby waiting
and childhood drifted from my hand;
small pebbles on the grave.
The forest sighs. Or was it me?
A breath bent low with tears.
Now I must take the road myself,
to learn where it will lead.