Go on walking fool,
hoping fool, endless villages
interwoven with lost souls
await your tread,
and when you stumble for lack of light
do not be surprised
that there is nothing to catch you.
The lingering echoes of the lowland bell,
tell tales of the torment wilderness wanderer.
Gone is the light of dazzling youth,
now only mad mocking bells hopeless
posed like a Constable picture?
Bring on the madness
that can deride this existence,
and let me laugh into infinity
on an April Fool morning.
I am going, I am going into the rooms without a ceiling where birds know the measure of sunset, the alone ways of wet penetrating solitude, and where this nowhere, calls us to be bent double like old beggars, on a street with no name.