James Walton # 115 I will be your open city

a hail ashore

not a mirage of inklings

a gate always open

beneath a white pennant

surrender yourself

here the fountain knows no age

sit down by the brickwork

later I will bring out a towel

wipe away these days

I’ll read your quiet palm

trace the drifting lines back

find your watermark at source

write your name by dipped finger

see how it shines then departs

from these momentary lapses

how soon the sun and moon merge

in an overlapping circumference

another day of lives waits

outside of forgotten sanctuary

above its wing beat compass

a kestrel squawks of wandering

remember the smell of bread

the tired tread to be ahead

of too many willing souls

soon a dark regretfulness

will slow to the fall of a leaf

each side in equal shadow

there are no answers

there are no secrets

we are all a passage here