Bart Wolffe


Their sharp tongues pick worms of thought

Far too early for Dick Turpin in his grave,

The green sward that blankets him is unquiet

And even death is no rest for a midnight highwayman.

If only hanging from a gallows tree, the ravens

Had not feasted on his eyeballs

He might have heard the wind gallop again

Blowing back the mane of his black horse

Until the steaming vapours mingled in the mist

And under the starlit candles counted jewels

Dreaming of the open road and always

Being a ghost rider secret in his solitude.

But the damn birds steal each secret

When they pick with morning’s needles

In their sharp beaks, they are the only ones

Free to ride the wind.

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