In a field

of cobblestones
waving under

the breath of time

brushing by,
like wheat

in the summer

wind,
leaves

have been

dropped,
bookmarks

for the wanderers
burnt

by the seasons
to remember

the page

they’ve been blown

from.
In a field

of cobblestones,
alight

with silvery tunes,
leaves

have been lit

for the wanderer,
dancer

of the roads,
to walk down

the lines

on his face
In a field

of cobblestones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Photo: Jean-Michel HATTON