JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

The tracks run over the hills all rust

run over the hills across the plains

they trace their dead fingers in the dust

and they gape back down across the moors

to see where the station was

 

The path runs  under the trees, dry bends

runs under trees through twigs and leaves

the path once manned can’t understand

why wheels are abandoned in the dust

and where have the drivers gone

 

The sea runs ashore, wild waters rise

run over the sills and under the doors

nor mould nor crows nor crumbling walls

are disposed to remember how it was

 

The brine and the dust, the crows, the stones

don’t really care about tracks or bones