Tramp or Tourist.

Here in the break of a day
high on my sunseat
the river plays stage left
passing me centre stage somewhere
round the curve stage right
playing old songs with it
like a seagulls lullabye.

But the tourist stays on holiday
now always and there seems nowhere left to go.
Tossing away those sweaty well photographed clothes
the noble tramp emerges
dressed in hair and old shoes that takes him over to a
green verge across the swamp of road
feasting his eyes upon the foxgloves there
and the high oaktrees always at the corner of his rain washed eyes,
he finds his hotel room under sad stars.
She walks with me, he thinks and throws away the currency of leaves,
then lies upon a bed of twigs soft as mown grass.

Here in the break of a day
I travel round this world just to get my footsteps in time
and a new song in my head that ryhmes.