The Wall

There is a long, long stone wall.
I am at its base.
Not quite grey, not quite buff.
And heavy, but well-placed mortar between the joints.

It runs well above my head and curves slightly,
Never enough to complete a circle.
The cap is thick and made of concrete,
The base impenetrable.

I walk along, sometimes touching with my left hand and feeling its texture.
Occasionally, recessed into the stone,
There is a timber door, locked or bolted.
If there is an inside, I am outside.
I pass by it without trying to enter.

I, alone, tread the path along the wall.
Its loose gravel crunches underfoot.
There is no evidence of anything living,
No sky, no trees, no birds, no color, no weeds growing from likely cracks.
Just me, and the wall, and the crunch of gravel beneath my feet.
For eternity.