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The Wind To the Wayside

The Wind to the Wayside

     There’s an old man sleeping on the bank of a river, and he’s flying his dreams in an indigo sky. If you listen so softly, there’s a chance you’ll remember his words of magic to the old and the wise.
     There’s a candle in the window of the widow on the corner, its flame is what’s left of the light in her eyes. If you listen so closely, she sings a sad song of all she has lost in the tears that she cries.
    
     Mist in the hollows and shadows at night, wisps on the water and smoke in the sky. Voices of sirens whisper to the light, and I’m flying on the wind to the Wayside.

     There’s a child laughing in hills filled with heather, and she’s calling the names of the stars near the moon. If you watch oh so wisely, you might see her tiptoe into the slipstream and drift away home.
     There’s a cobbler mending soles by a hearth, and he’s whistling a tune to the ostler’s wife. If you listen so meekly, you’ll find he’s completely lost in a place for the ostler alone.
     
     Mist in the hollows and shadows at night, wisps on the water and sparks in the sky. Voices of sirens call to the light, and I’m flying on the wind to the Wayside.

     I’m dreaming. I’m not. Its real and I’m falling. These hands can’t hold onto shadow and smoke. I’m screaming. Silence. Scions are calling. These memories bow down to a night time of ghosts.  

     There’s a reaper tending to fields grown fallow, his face etched with sorrow from the sweat of his brow. If you listen so sadly, you’ll hear the earth weeping for the sallow soil at the blade of his plow.
     There’s a vendor peddling on streets long gone silent, he doesn’t remember that sleep is about. If you listen so simply you’ll hear the faint flicker of the lamp on the cobbles as his last light goes out.

     Mist in the hollows and shadows at night, wisps on the water and fire in the sky. Voices of sirens plea to the light, and I’m flying on the wind to the Wayside. 

     I’m dying. I’m not. Its real and I’m fleeting. These eyes can’t see through the shroud and the cloak. I’m drifting. Silence. Scions are calling. These memories bow down to a lifetime of ghosts.

Copyright © Lee Rogers | Year Posted 2017