Where the Avenues End

Sometimes when we walk under the sinking sun
Our shadows seem to quicken behind us.
As if to hasten us to that place where all avenues end.

We grieve,
For the trees pulled into this earth,
To send their roots into the cobblestones at our feet. Constrict-
when they mangle into knots, and return to the surface
to plead mercy from the sky. We pray-

For the days that drop like leaves.
Bleed, for the disoriented beat of the birds
That bleat like belaboured hearts
In bone cages.

For there is no grace in this voyage,
With no paddle to steer us.
Where the weary traveller curses the sun´s retreat,
Never closer to that place than waves
drowning in vast seascapes
with no shoreline.

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