Walking Low

Walking low.
Waiting for the fires to show.
Waiting for the glow
of heat,
of rest and sleep,
to overtake
and melt the snow.

The rain falls
and sounds like a thousand golfball bumps,
tapping in tiny clumps.
Wet sploshes,
to fill the road,
in a grey flood.
Washing where the people stood,
one year ago,
when I was walking high.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.