Here’s a quick poem about my boots that have been to so many places over the past couple of years. If I’m being honest, the ones I wrote the poem about have now gone to shoe heaven (may they rest in peace) BUT all the things I said they’d seen they really had.
No, I’m not referencing
the back trunk of a car.
Instead I mean the soles on my feet,
the ones that have travelled oh so far.
They’ve seen the highest mountains.
They’ve seen the brightest cities.
They’ve seen sublime castles,
and things that weren’t so pretty.
The scattered sands of beaches
sprawled across the toes
have left wee little stains
like scars left by noble foes.
These boots down on my feet
have been left sitting by the sea
waiting patiently for me to surface
in not but my skivvies.
From the top of Mount Floyen
to the red lights of Amsterdam
they’ve walked every where I have,
reminders like passport stamps.
Their black, worn-out leather
shows new marks from year to year.
Stains from grass and dust and soil
and the salt from several tears.
These boots have left footprints
almost everywhere I’ve stepped,
but what’s more are the imprints
on my soul those places left.