Christopher Hopkins writes

This desire's end


The desire lines are setting black.

Drawn out by the days
of dogs and I, the follower.

A cry from the homeless crow,
cracks a slumbered sleeping,
and up I look,
from the tip jar coverings, I look.
Up the ‘skelters' of ivy sheen,
up the bleaching browns,
to the black electric of the oak trees bare,
against the drum skin lid.

Its own echo,
to its calling
and nothing more in answers.
An echo stretched,
as stretched as these days from the sun.
The shadows can do nothing more,
but stay in the undergrowth,
snarling teeth,
eyeing the pale light of the morn.
Stalking beauty until.

On the back of this juddered
stage death of a season,
endless pathways to desire
are turning to colours of shadows,
of summer backs,
of used print.

Turning back,
I walk over foot prints of mud,
that are not my own,
and let my dogs run free.