WALKING BOOTS
Leaving the office bang on five
A dreary scene awaits me:
Black clouds forcibly pull down the sky
And saturate me with their liquid contents.
Miserably I trudge up an alley
Escaping the rush hour din
And contemplate dismal delights
Of ready-made meals and T.V. soaps
Awaiting my return home.
I casually glance at discarded debris
Strewn around the lane
Until my eyes spot some sodden boots
Abandoned and worn to the ground.
Suddenly I'm no longer down-trodden
Or even in the rain:
The grey alley has transformed into
Sun-baked hills evoking aromatic fuses
Of exotic plants and eccentric flowers
And I'm walking in the old boots to the beat
Of distant aboriginal drumming.
They eagerly show me the places they've touched
From the excruciating heat of desert sand
To the summits of snow-tipped mountains.
I absorb the sights the world offers on the way
Both of beauty and decay
But sadly the journey has to conclude.
I reluctantly leave the boots in the lane
And crossing Reality Road I arrive, home.
Copyright Amanda L Jones 1999