Little Hills

Somewhere here my roots are buried,
I came to find them.
I’ve been told that roots run deep
And wind their way throughout
The earth. They entwine and
Disrupt foundations. 
They jut out of pavements, and when you walk 
They make you trip.
What was once fun to run over at speed on a bike
And bump
With a daredevils grin
Is now an uneasy offset for 
Fragile ankles.

Somewhere here my roots are buried.
Perhaps in the streets
Where it gets dark at night,
With exception of that orange light
That flickers and keeps you awake
And reminds you that the council lied.
They could be in the parks
Where they make excellent steps
For climbing little hills
And you’ll hop,
Until you reach the top.
Where some sort of tale
Awaits you in the clouds.

I was advised that roots are
Unreliable yet trustworthy. 
They might not show
Or barely grow
Where you need them to go
But they will be there
I’m not sure I know where they are
But I think I need them back.
For I am lost
And I think I need them back.
I know I said I’m fine
But I think I need them back.

Published by R.T

Brit born and Canada bound, I run On Tuesdays, my poetry blog where I write weekly(ish) poems.

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