I can’t work wonders; I really can’t.
Still I am always able to follow
you into the Weston woods.
That much I can do.

As from the greener get around
the red bird skyrockets in
flight. Its long tail poin-
ting back to where it
went. Its beak still
bloody from
the vine.

And feathers wetter from
the well – of brooks and
iron cast.

I will not shoot my bolt; I just won’t.
Immobile I will trace your unseen
tracks along Wellesley Road.
That trouble I will take.

And from the white heat whereabouts
the pathway paw-plunders in
might. Its long miles lea-
ding back to where I
came from. My feet
worn out through

Neither the red bird crooned,
nor did it crown or
confer knighthood
on the backpacked

A vagrant son of
Europe on his
quest to hint
for home.

M.J.C.A. 01-06-2007