John Keyes

The road is the same. The tar spots right there, do they remember me like I remember them?

The bend is the same. It hasn’t changed. It curves away. Will the calves be at the gate today? They are the variable in this game.

One step at a time. Repeat, repeat, repeat. The lowly beat of the constant feet. Do it again and again and again.

The road rises up to the gate. The hedgerow mature on the right, adolescent on the left. The electricity poles attentive in the fields.

Turn around, and down we go. Past the shed, with the lop-sided roof. The new manhole in it’s shiny black asphalt frame. Solid, no rattle my foot connects. Another step done, another ascends.

The grass verge, kept neat, has been changed today. The tyre treads deep are carved and shout at me. Past the stone wall, with jagged teeth. Repeat, repeat.

One step at a time.

The pigeons lift, from their stolen grain feast. Disturbed by me, and my pattering feet. The wind rages, my gilet flaps, the noise warns all of my steady approach.

The ruts in the concrete, the puddle too deep, the jeering litter, the wire on the window, constants. Constants like my steps. Turn again, repeat repeat.

Just one more loop, reset the brain. The road is the same.