Wanderer - The start of a long series of poems.

Wanderer.

Wandering.
Who does that anymore?
They all run, hurry, rush.
No time for wandering on this earth, that
whizzes around and around and
around.
They may sneer at the slow one, they think
I miss out on life, that it passes me by.
But I pity the ones swept up in life, missing the details, life a
blur.
I'm the one with the time to look, to think, to remember.
Savour.

Savour the gold filigree leaves that spiral downwards in autumn.
Savour the birth of the new day, breaking into life as the
sunlight blends the colours of the morning.
Savour laughter, joy and hope, and the intricate details of life that only the favoured glimpse, the ones who look, who think, who remember; those who savour.

Savour the lengthy wanderings.


So John Agard said that language is magic, and that we can all write poetry.
I tried.