Those Blue Boar Days

Two streets from home, the taxi slows,
my choice to linger, stray and wait.
The urge for elsewhere festers, grows,
the inevitable remains delayed.

Slow steady steps though sharpened air
that bites the skin, yet clears the mind,
if destiny's not cast in stone
could it be shed, be left behind.

This dry stone wall of Millstone Grit
immersed in orange street light glow,
I pause to think, find wits to pick,
enveloped by a swirl of snow.

As darkness seeps through skin and soul
to blacken out the flickered light,
despite all aims to fight this toll 
that pulls into the endless night.

It strikes me there and then, so clear,
what was once hoped could never be,
that love and life meet death and fear,
if only we could ever see.

The long lost prospects, dreams of youth
once seemed so vital dimmed to none.
With passing days, I see the truth
those Blue Boar days are dead, and gone.