Clay Path

had he not looked up

after checking the time,

would not be aware

of clay tiles and irregular

ridges leading to a spire,

framed lowlit sky

no moon,

he waited as if for inspiration,

maybe too much beer,

wishing to go up,

scramble on moss covered surfaces,

lifting each tile,

looking for messages imprinted


answers to his many questions,

an unsteady rock on feet

inhaling a cool sharpness,

it would wait,

no ladder or drainpipe available,

he thought of the spire

and building behind

and wondered if he could

get there.


copyright Margaret Bednar IGWRT prompt