You see me striding past, hand luggage only,
You think I don’t have space for souvenirs,
And yet I mark each inch of earth below me
As I go loping past, hand luggage only –
And if you had the chance to get to know me
You’d see my skin holds memories of my years.
You see me walking past, hand luggage only,
Not knowing how I bear my souvenirs.
A triolet for dVerse, where we are asked to write about a memento. I fancied doing a form, so this is a triolet. I’m hoping to find time to do something more free-form – maybe for Open Link night at the poets’ pub.