They probably thought I was a clueless tourist.
A close friend once said of me I’m almost lost inside myself.
Though it never really interfered with my relationships
I revert to  these two ladies were they,  Chloe or Clementine not quite cognisant due to  inconvenient frosted gust:


“Oh please don’t worry.
I haven’t a heightened sixth sense… about the mint infused lilt here.”
There must be a compass without a point surrounding me
“Looking for directions.
The town you’re seeking is a few winding roads and rusted signposts away.”
They both beamed at me.
Something told me they seemed very familiar but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Some light hearted banter followed
I’m used to dreaming a lot whilst on “ FOOT,”
Meter and metaphor.
The lyrical metaphor for those  feet who endure my
“pilgrimages.”
Quaint but quite symbolic of this wider something.
Often the way with what appears to be a lone drifter but who also loves company.
An hour must have passed but these ladies and their crisp morning diction seemed to emanate from a distance either of something outside of me or without somehow.
A life style of my own choice was born by these shoes I wear.
I’d say the footwear would have many’s the mind boggling narrative  to reveal.
Perhaps the old toes whose mild ache always a signal of a bizarre side to what passes as that composite of a constellation called my personality.
The care I actually shower on them.  
They the feet  had perforce their parlance.
Almost as if I had this relationship with them.
They really owe me nothing in the totality of things yet I owe them everything
All these thoughts swirling round in my head.
“Hey you great  to see a stranger talking to themselves about the shoes they wear.
Huh.”
Blunt, person or what.
Seemed like a red faced moment as I kept walking so briskly
Must keep my lips sealed but somehow I might also be heard murmur.
Like a saga writing itself ahead of any action on my part.
“Was that some bus heading towards town.
Their sound interrupting sumptuous hills and sinusoidal roads whose puckered surfaces like the human face, had this history enigmatically embedded.
For eons I’ve been absorbing
myriads of ankle strain tufted trigonometric pathways that zigzag merry dances to spots deemed inchoate, shrouded in either flighty tenants whose restless drive  and elliptical engagements mythify them even more.
As I have trudge so many   roads that weep blisters in the sweltered sun, astute bewilderment makes me notice despite everything.
Each town, city, village  seems to have that magnetic pull.