Stories by Colin Burke


Whence do they come,
Those footsteps light
That mingle now with mine?
Where will they go, that knot behind,
Which I tie now by turning?
My hand on yours is rough,
You say –
‘Tis natural:
The tree, being bitten, will
Project its bark;
Your fingertips, however, are calloused
At the roots,
From tapping tidy type across
The blanch’d and battered face
Of tree you never knew.
But I slay friends to keep you warm,
Or such as you,
And I must say for them that it
Is worth the loss of life –
Or it were suicide and murder.
With music ending, return now
To your friends,
To walking paths unblended –
What did you say? I
Dance well,
Do I?
I hadn’t known it –
Thank you.

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