A cloudy April day. These pewter skies
of early spring, moving like a mirror
over the gray concrete town – where you're
not near. Gone. Pining Hobo sighs and sighs.
There's the Milky Way (a silver ring, remote,
mysterious, magnificent) and then
there's a mulberry tree by a wooden
fence, on Milk Street (London, long ago).
A cozy room looks out where Thomas More
(by window-light) writes his last will and
testament (familiar, private, un-Utopian) –
walks in mind toward that peaceful hour
he must meet scaffold and Maker. Fatal
crux of his faithful devotion – London's
famous vanishing point (bleak Tyburn,
by the stream, in Marylebone). We all
must meet there, ponders Everyman –
on the scaffold-stage. You can hear music
of the weak pipe, when they consecrate
unhallowed ground with an undertone
then turn together (hobbling round) to bring
new brightness from the grave, a flowering.
And O further back and further back, sing
the holy beggars and Franciscans, mewling
at the breast of Jordan-spring – there where
a grey blur hovers between blue and green
and further back and back again... light air
for shepherd's flute – blind man's bluff tune.