Unexplained

There lives a man who
On freezing winter mornings
Or searing hot afternoons
Seems so engrossed
With no care in this world
But with a piece of chalk
Or a rusted stone
He writes.
Writes with a yearning
On the streets, the black charcoal road
On the outer walls of houses,
On railings, on dustbins,
He writes.
A story? Some tale long lost?
No, just crumbs of knowledge
The alphabet, or just numbers.
Undecipherable, unexplained
No beginning, no end.
They call him ‘mad’.
But he writes still-
“one, two, three, four…”
A count that goes on
Inexplicable, unstoppable...