Quarrels echo
across the yard
toward a large
watery gate.
Grey
figures turn
hiding their hands
and run
as animals scatter
with the wind
that howls.
Down the hill
women gather
and men glare
from behind vast whiskers
in photographs
of heavy locks
that fasten decisions
from the outside.
Middle Lane Birds
Steve Coel
Along hidden
grassed up
middle lane birds
swoop as insects
skirt and skit.
Time here
is held in place
by bells
distant with summer
brown and crinkled blue.
No Paths
Steve Coel
Here,
where young people
never return
and there are no paths,
is the place
language goes to die,
and old people
still stop to watch
lost cars
drive pass.
Walking Notes
Steve Coel
An 11.59 Publication
