A Tale of Footprints

I took a walk down the village path

And read the tales on its face.

The morning after a rainy night.

A thousand-tales told and retold

In the marks of those gone before.

Some full, some half trodden down

Some giantish, some dwarfish

Some clear, some blur, vanishing.

All equally lie, telling their tale

For who cares to read.

Tales of hope, tales of fear

Some of terrors and tragedies

And many unhurried paces of romance.

Read: Village Boy Impressions - The Days of Bliss

Long I stood reading the silent tales

As far as the eye could see

For many were the words on that path

Speaking in varied pitches of voice

Some speak in the center of the path;

And leave deep tales in the dust

Those are fast trodden under and lost.

Others speak gruffly on the edges

Brushings thorns and stubs and weeds

And hardly leave an impression

But the dying weeds tell their tale.

By their effort the path grows. 

Many prints diverge

To the right and to the left

Still, many others converge onto it

And every print that came or went

Adds an account

To the tale of the path.

Though there be many prints

There is actually just one tale,

The tale of human endeavour

Of feet that came and went

And left their tale behind

Silent footprints on a path…

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