Bows

Bows

after Stevie Smith

You see. I have a pair of old scuffed shoes.

Together we walk around, here and there.

The shops, the gallery, my friendly doctor.

I tie and untie laces as if in metronome.

The twisted and trailing bows tripping my life.

And at dawn, I note trellis across the road.

I knot, then pause. The left, not the right.

New breath of spring brings a pause in me —

a moment when decisions will be newly laid.

For there are thorny paths I can no longer tread.

Yes. Ancient grubby turns and pulls of history 

are to be undoubled then whipped away.

That even if I have to creep on glass grass,

I will plant my toes into the softest fresh sands. 

A view where I see myself not drowning.