Saturday, 14 July 2012

The Pilgrimage

We're sitting by the river.
The evening goes on forever.
Conversation turns to how we
should mark the evening.
That damned river.
The bugs and flies. Gnats.
Don't know why none of us thought to fish in it.
Once King floated a chair on it.
An old rocking chair and King
sat on the water
as if he was at home
in his parlour.

It's King who's talking now.
Says, why don't we cycle there?

The words comes rushing
in like sea singing the shingles.

Picture a string of bicycles.
Old-time bikes.
Sit up and beg
tradesmen's bikes.

A pilgrimage
of sorts to the stones
that never happened.

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