FOOTPATH

The grey cemented footpath adjacent to my cozy dwelling,

a desirable walkway for this area's denizens.

Each tile evincing episodes of different pedestrians,

a few wool-gatherers stroll along, women walk filling in the day's gossip.

Regular couples stretch legs, eyes searching for familiarity,

loners brisk pace matching the perfect tile shape.

Children meander along shaking all their limbs,

the brown cats and kittens meowing at passers by;

the huge tame dogs enjoying the jaunt.

The evening trees relish the heightened carbon dioxide rush,

birds cheep adding  the background score.

The cruising occasional plush car catches the walkers' eye.

The footpath knows it all,

sights and stories sealed on grey  red tiles.

Every footprint, every shoe contour,

tiles capturing tales of years passed by.

The future wayfarers may walk and run,

bent eyes glued to small inch screens

on the dissipated cobbled path . 

The past, the present and the future all converge here,

mangled stories stuck sometimes on unfamiliar trainers .

I will leave and so will you,

the chipped footpath will hang on

to hear and cement narratives egressed.