The Narrative Of Walls
The old brick wall was always there,
but I’d left it unnoticed for a time.
It held my gaze as I wandered by,
and I saw that it had aged
a little more than time allowed,
with the trace of salt along its base
and the dust of fretting bricks,
the earth returning to its place.
The wall is marked with histories,
of weather and of time,
the stains of rain and dogs
and local drunks.
and tennis balls
have grazed these ancient bricks.
I’ve leaned here,
and waited for a sign.
If I could squeeze this wall
it would have so much to give
by way of story,
some of it mine.
©Paul Vincent Cannon