Submitted by Willie Smith
The snow they print, melt and in it
become numb. In the sand
they reabsorb the set sun. They pad,
they slap, they lope, they never tap.
Their faces are calloused and wrinkled,
yet pink with mirth and innocence.
Like young mountaineers
they smile quietly
and plod on.
The stars rise,
the trod grass springs back.
They have no mouth to laugh
nor eyes to cry.
They see in the night
down a moonless path,
while through a bare smile
hooked at the heels
they speak the sadness of sleep.
Photo credit: “Footprints in the Snow”- Nigel Fletcher