A million waymarks point inland
relics of meltwater, volcanic rock
martyred monks, tarmac B road

I rest beside a rusty bus stop
An outcrop, interwoven greenery,
clogs the plateau. Gathered tumps
of stony loam, accumulated gravel
and cobbles, form statues
aligned in a grid

Every song
every prayer
every dream
is yours

~ ~ ~

Three Points

In the silence, dark night
the monologue stops
the bundle you've strapped to your shoulders
is dropped
Trip the lanes
wild fruit for breakfast

With 100,000 so close
you don't stop to play
you relax into insularity
the monologue stops
Your friends have left you messages
to live by

The traffic noise and hint of fumes
suggest this is almost a city park
but it is middle ground
easy, if you don't generate extremes

~ ~ ~