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Detritus

Author: John M. C. Robertson
Year: Hope

A single pair of red boots lie

forlorn in tarmac square.

On them sits a note to no one

and everyone, everywhere.

A tartan umbrella,

Dressed for rain nor sun,

Cast aside (knot still tied)

as if no worse set to come.

Black boots this time, left to die

Beneath a double crutch

We hobble forward, path unsteady,

in search of gentle touch.

But even still, amongst it all,

there’s beauty in the fracture.

If we only take our moment,

To stop, to look and capture.

And whilst such interventions

Seem almost heaven sent,

Seeds of doubt are sewn

To grow an oak of discontent.

As hopes and dreams aplenty

Fade into the long grass,

We cling to four small words:

This, too, shall pass.

Yet here we ask with fear and wonder

if this burden is a sign,

For no streetscape and no soul escapes

the detritus of our time.