the wandering man

The Wandering Man (working title)

Long back in a home afraid of the strange,
Where all things meandered, afraid of change.

‘Till I was touched by a lovely gust,
A sensuous breeze called wanderlust.

Sprightly I left to the spring of my life,
To where I met invigorating strife.

Out in the sun I found I could not settle,
Not while life was hammering my mettle.

Every bruise, scab, every sore joint and scuffed knee,
Made me lament those who could not join me.

For every night, asleep beneath old trees,
I, with my canopy of stars, felt free.