Wanderer

The wanderer's ways belie his dreaming

That coasts scar his eyes, mountains his sleep

Feet tired for walking

He'll rest where he can

Shuttered eyes, stirring breeze

Origins as bleak as future

The walk grasps and lets go with each boot-imprinted mud, sand or purple-budded branch broken on the heath.

His mouth pursed speaks loudly to any encounterer

Explains perfectly why he's here:

"The road goes and with it go I. Your houses are cess-pools of stagnated ways. Give me the air which is nothing. Patch of bracken to put this head on. Anything to say or shall I move on?"

Desperate ways have we know but nothing of the shame simplicity brings.