Travelling Poem by Patti Trimble

TRAVELLING


The architecture of this town is sure,
quarried, stacked, arched, restricted—
someone bricked up half the doors
gagged every mouth, ended that story—

Everyday we walk from apse and womb
down grey streets like aged veins,
so narrow we can touch both walls,
as we absorb story and its petrification,
we creep towards a handful of blue light.

But we are closer to blood orange
than to cobble and so we roll downhill,
gather speed, bang against doors,
bruise, until today's wind
spits us hollow and light upon the sea.