David Boll
The bottom of the barrel
Like slowly winding a bucket from a well
Only to find
That the bucket is heavy but empty
Like digging around for the box
Where you heard the papers were buried
But never finding it
Like being surrounded
With row upon row of books
Filled with sawdust
Like a journey of many days
To arrive at your home
and it’s vanished
Like going as planned on the road
Towards your destination
When it gives out
Like seeing the colours of rust
In an empty bucket
Like finding wild flowers dense
Where you have dug
Like people from a book
Alive in your mind
Like suddenly wanting
A new home
Like rambling the tracks
In roadless country.
Page(s) 50-51
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