Iron Horse

Read a poem.
It barely leaves infancy
trudging down the track.
Take a pause crusading soul.
Grapple with the moving words.

Churn the wheels round
voluntarily hold it in your heart.
An alleged mossy carpet ceases.

In the distance the horn
bellows, a cloud of smoke appears.
Let it go.

Years later
the meaning won’t be misplaced.
Find it hidden in jean pockets.


Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: