It’s a shove and bump on the cobble lane
by my house. It passes two by narrowest
persons wide, leads from the Queen’s Head
pub to the church, each set at opposite ends.
A walk done fast, a travel of minutes at most.
This lane that plied a doctor, a cobbler,
smithy, chippie, and shopkeeper in trade.
Right here … all the wears of our world,
all a villager would ever need. Now I walk
on ancient ways, these Methuselah tracks,
paving stones of such patience to stay here
underfoot. To tread, to trod, pub to church
to holy ground. A lane of life’s management.
“Found” and remixed words from my
Winter 1991 Journal and Bleak House.