Your Humble Poet
Away from your empire you could be
a head-banded, bell-tinkling hippy
a song of love spun from your harp ringing
well, if you were hallucinating.
I saw you on the riverbank today
a pale druid could do no more to pray.
You stood so long, just as a waypost
what held you at that desolate coast?
I too carry a frayed bag of wishes
old and grey and reduced to ashes.
Take it now if it proves the slightest good
scatter these dried clouds; feed your fishes.
And on my hill I'll shout till arrested
winds and wings take my word and pledges.
And you will turn from the reedbeds now
leave behind the poet who showed you how.