On the Road to Bedwyn

tranquility lends itself in the green pastures,

on the edges of Hungerford

through gnarled trees and moss covered leaves,

one is called to years long dead. 

tombstones bearing names of the abbots of St Laurence 

call as only the dying can. 

come home. 

for 14 miles along the canal,

you learn more about yourself 

than in 14 months in front of a therapist. 

and for three hours slipping into the water seems effortless. 

because I wouldn't even make a ripple. 

calling cards and ringing bells remind of the hour but the deed gets lost,

and iniquity rolls with the hills until the horizon fades into another dreamer's eyes. 

and that's alarming. 

you were born in a dress cut from a velvet cloud,

just above the hills of Eddinborough. 

when the rain cleansed the cobblestone, 

your cheeks so burned. 

and then you passed over the peak and I lost you forever. 

-

in Hungerford, a boy laced up his worn boots. 

among the graves of St John, a man trudged through the grass. 

14 years passed,

on the 14 miles to Little Bedwyn.