I placed a hand on October stone
Winter skinned my palm.  And curled red leaves
Into the hollow of the city wall
Around the drifting man
Bound in viscous sleeping bag
Cushioning stone from bone
Ragged Odysseus, he was no one
Beating aimless meters, elopes life
Strapped under city’s belly
Travelling man on stained path
Warrior of wet slabs, battling the wild
weaving winds.  In blinkered armour
I saw no one

Theresa Ryder