The Search

My old shoes shuffle down the cobbled
lane way, I stagger as on wet stones
feel the harsh sting of flesh on rock,
recovering I pick myself up, stepping
more carefully, not to befall indignity again.
Ahead my respite comes into view,
aged, needing of repair,
whitewash flaking, mortar crumbling,
the slow decrepitude of wind, rain and sun, over the decades, not
heeded my man, to slip into squalor.
My faithful chair, still hinting of leather,
creased with a worn loved appeal,
the embers of the fire glow lowly,
heat lessening, bit by bit,
I retire, my bed comforts, I await another
desolate day, seeking still
that which has always eluded me. Always seeking, always and always.