From out behind the images,
Spun from banks of visions,
Wrought from pulpish, bulging clods
Of mud from off my boots;
In some such way my thoughts emerge,
Aloud, aside, or in my head,
Always in an attempt to sound
Some sense from out my steps.
Yes, I begin by talking.
They begin with steps themselves
And in so pacing find their path.
Jacob started walking.
Trudging through a waist thick fog,
A thawing plough upon his boots
And sleep lurking in every blink,
Jacob felt the journey’s weight
Begin to ache him to the core.
Once or twice he had looked back,
During his morning’s trek,
But the way those probing towers grasped,
Blindly winking at his back,
Told him that he must ‘soldier on’,
As mother might have said.
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