Footsteps

At that time of wanting

When the mind is focused
Clear with expectation, waiting,
The sound of footsteps,
A personal signature of echo,
Come stepping across the heart.

But, at the moment of fear

When the sweated mind is racing,
Muddled by past events,
The tap of the urgent heel
Is the stamp of the inquisitor;
The tread of the executioner.

Footsteps are more than hollowed sounds,

The pause at the locked door.
They speak; they meet, whisper;
They bring, collect, retreat;
Patrol weakly lit corridors,
Slip from the warmth of bedrooms,
Carry the baggage of memory
And march the length of history.
The sound prints of people.