Everywhere is on the road
to somewhere else, another town,
another love. I've tried to tarry
but someone always says 'Move on.
This is not the place for you.'
Someone says 'Tomorrow waits
further along, around the bend.'
I can smell the pines, growing
close and dark beside the road.
Let me lay my head here just
a little while, breathing in
the songs they have remembered, left
by the wind before it, too
traveled on to somewhere else.
Stephen Brooke ©2012
So, I seem to be back in poet mode, at least to some degree. I'll need to get busy on other projects and probably not continue to write that much. Rough tetrameter here, accentual rather than strictly metrical.