Winter Run
Mesmeric footfall
takes me round to the cemetery
in at the gate
quick glance
left and right
no elephants
just the corpse of an old motorbike
presided over by Mr Crow
his feathers fluffed out so he looked
cute
yes he did.
up the hill
past the gaping graves
avoid the void
and keep moving
through the mud and puddles
chasing the diminishing squawk
of the parakeet
as he flies off
in search of a non-existent
tropical canopy
while I, earthbound, huff
quietly to myself
and abolish all dreams of elsewhere.