you were trying to describe the novel
way of looking at things, the border lines,
the crossings, the sort of high-plains drifting
Kerouac-like on a horse, the journey
without end, bedding down, moving beyond
ever-changing horizons, chance meetings
on the road, breaking bread sharing water
(if not wine), what kept you then from making
meanings clear? what kept then you then from making
full-blooming love to a dark-haired woman
bathing naked in the rock-pool of your mind?
who pausing simply stared you down and smiled
in such a way that you were much beguiled.
Many of my books and bookets are available at:
About the Author: Bernard Whimpress
I am a freelance writer and historian based in Adelaide, South Australia. Most of my 54 books are on sport, chiefly cricket, although a couple of titles have been on Adelaide heritage buildings and I have also written a memoir.