Saturday, March 21st 2009


Running softly, soundlessly,

across the midnight rooftops,

a dozen factory chimneys etched in black.

Through the silhouettes of night,

. . . my soul goes running,

silence masking its footfalls.

Far away, a ship calls home,

its cry echoing into the murky blackness.

A pigeon roosts on a factory windowsill, its glass reflecting the moon.

As my soul goes running, no shadows does it cast, nor reflections are seen.

For who will take the time in the dead of night, to look at midnight rooftops, and notice,

. . . as my soul goes running.

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Image:The Traveller
Words written a long, long time ago.(recently rediscovered)


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