One morning will see the awakening
Of a new, passionate will, to drop
All pretence of the worldly game
And leave the city, the edifice upon which
I have been broken, and broken myself
Out of any fragment of sense, one day
Will I divest the rotten sediment built
To shoulder such labours, and I will walk
Onto the plain of Holderness, as here
Is my sublime desert, here is my green
Waste rolling and coursing breathless
Before an equally naked sky, here
Will I touch peace, have time and silence
To think, think over what decades of time
Have been robbed of me, think how
I have now released and condemned myself
Away from Babel, money and online
Replacements for blood and flesh,
Instead I will have the birds preach
To me, each crow and robin hosting me
As I stumble over ploughed fields, tilted
Undulating, guarded with weathered trees
Then my desert becomes Eden, barren sun-baked
Trails are festooned with fruits, nuts,
Oats and honey, milk, bread, sweet nectars
Long burned away by satanic mills
And watered by cooling towers, no matter,
And the folk in the fields, fellow exiles
Who have bought their solitude, their
Furtive glances from the corners of window panes
Are lost in the merry dances and songs
They greet a black traveller, come sit and eat
Of our fruits of the earth, the salt of our brow
Made into fire and cheer, in the soil
Have we been blessed with life, maybe
In the wilderness I have found a salve
For the unending ache, the biting pitch
Screwing into my head, the wretched flinch
That comes from staring into each morning
I walk and smoke and drink and pray so
The emptiness goes, and I can feel the sun
Without howling in agony and trudging
Into another choking fumble at the seam
Maybe my bucolic voie sacreé
Is the soothing palliative I crave, and yet
My Eden is a desert, as hunger and cold
Sap me slowly back into the earth, across
The plain I spot the quilt of the sea
Truly this corner of England forever
Will hold that wish to hear the old laughter
Of the earth again, as my body feeds
The tender field, laid down I rest at last
Dark grey clouds mourn at my graveside,
A cool wind rustles sheafs crowning
My unmoving head, the crow and robin lament
That I sought truth in the desert, when
It had eluded me, or rather had said
Its simple message and shut back up
And I had bewailed that could not be
How little there really was to live for
After all, and nothing now till the end.
@nepion_boreas17
