'No museum here' you said.

So I guess you had to make do

with a rusting emblem of the dead

time's plaything, your due;

a line from a prayer-book

a dusting of gold;

shattering a morning

of a bleak, mindless wanderer.

 

'Leave me the key' I said

and took the road to roam

gathering the crafts in arms

burying your trust at home;

a spring back in my step

a thought of the point

to reach and to remain.

To consider and to ponder.