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Wandering

Neither
beginning
or end
the journey
walks with
familiar boots
that smell of fields
winter and summer skies
the rustle of autumn leaves

they turn up
sitting beside
me
as the slipping sun dips
over warm oceans
while the unfamiliar
blows
across in the wind

riding
through colour
spices, saffron, cumin
on windowless buses
jostling
over pot holes
they rest.

poem by Diana Rosser
Added by Poetry Lover
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