I tell you there’s no ending, no straightening the straights,

and the twists and turns of life will remain unending.

Where do those paths go, via many trees bowed by breeze,

and thorny bushes with fresh and old blood specks to show.

Some are freeted by time, just lumbering and slumbering,

as stuttering takes them on to old, past their posturing prime.

Bored by sterile occupation, hobby horses caught in gorses,

do their slim passions leave any maps for family and nation?

Unmarked by their passing, this olde world not even curled,

no graves to be seen merely ashes scattered in a brisk wind lashing.

Yet for all the loss seen, the old folk not dipping bread in yolk,

still the atoms they left will remain untouched, to rise in your spleen…

©Rhumour

February 25th 2015