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.