The walker

From the top of the hill he waited
As ragged breath found its cadence
And the clouds spun above him
On the wheel of a hawk.
Greens and blues of the world
Broken down into colour.
The heat of his walking soaks away
As the wind pulls in like a boat in a storm
Trying every crack to find safe harbour.
He crouches, sits, slumps
Using his pack as chair-back and pillow.
Where he is and where he's been
Are forgotten in the morning sun.
Only the route ahead is important.
On cue he swings and stands.
Second hand throwing the pack up
As he starts the path afresh.