Weary feet
walked the street,
home to school without the beat
of a mother’s heels trying to keep
me from straying along the track
along the back
of the allotments growing weed.
Temptation never came to fruition
for fear of taking the heat
from the back of her hand
in a red raw streak
across the cheek
of a young face bleak
from invisible tears.
They were clad in brown,
faux leather Derri boots,
trailing footprints in the snow,
even though I had no place to go,
because running would have been no mean feat,
when I needed to survive, not face defeat,
by putting myself onto the street,
even though it had a welcome mat at the door,
waiting for me to wipe
the ice cold slush remnants from my
weary feet.
Kelly Van Nelson
Elanora Heights, NSW
