Each morning, you would solemnly trudge towards the river's edge, stick in your hand, without fail. Each step, I know, was another trodden heavily with more regret, each step directed towards your final destination You never failed to smile however, or say hello, even on the mornings where you'd roam the road outside, looking like nothing but a ghost You were full of stories, but devoid of people who had the time, the patience, or interest to listen. the bother, the care. But you kept on walking, didn't you? In Tuesday's sun, in Sunday's hail, slow, but never directionless. One morning, as the sun bled it's entrails down over the dockyard and side-streets, you roamed a new road. Armed with stories to be heard, you left the windows of my world. And finally they listened.