An ekphrastic poem, or perhaps more correctly, a poem employing ekphrasis, from Peter Young inspired by Croome
I’m woken by the footsteps that come running,
Sometimes barefoot, through night’s heavy dew.
The tracks don’t last, the crushed grass soon recovers;
No longer can I follow where they flew.
It’s not that every waking has this pattern.
Some tip-toe past the edges of my dreams,
Many more show no consideration
And clatter, clack and clomp, they rouse from sleep
My drowsy comprehension of the day.
Through practice I can recognize the footfall,
Each different pair of shoes reveals its soul:
The playful pumps of poetry twist meaning,
The heavy muddy boots of ill-formed writing
That editing will surely put to rights.
My clichéd carpet slippers’ best endeavours
A million times remind me what I know.
Flim-flam flip-flops flap at me with flummery
Distracting, entertaining – nothing deep.
Can’t catch the drift of trainers, far too swift.
Tread lightly on my dreams? I’ll give…
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