On a long, solo, morning ride
Glides by a tired, dusty countryside
Slouched in languid angles of repose.
Over sagging homes and crumbling walls
Float magpie feet and strident magpie calls
From top to top of poplar trees.
And in the fields and orchards work goes on
Beginning, as it likely always has, at dawn
On stomachs of bread and soy.
I think a lot of home,
And a lot about the past,
I contemplate what I’ll do,
What things that I know now
My mind runs miles
Around sodden, weary tracks.
What ifs, what mays, forgotten smiles
And even if I could go back,
What of that?
I have nothing to regret, other than the fact
That time and thought play tricks upon us all.
(I can’t help that, but regret it just the same)
I think a lot of home, and past
And know of course that what is gone is gone,
But keep thinking anyway.