Cobbles

I walk these cobbled streets, Hands dug deep into pockets, As my mother would, To find among these same roads: A foot. Taller than ten men, Limp and clumsy. Rupturing my cobbled streets, Weaving through the branches, And toadstools, Consuming our home in, Darkness as vibrant as it once were before, Before setting itself onto my abode, Where some mother now lay. And then moving on with its day, Like the rest of us.