Walking in the fields in the land of abandoned god's,

The clay clumps at my heels and clings in wet clods,

Staring at the skies with a view to the divine,

Trying to get a feel for what's mine and not mine,

There's a sense of past tense in everything I see,

As if all of it is there but none of it's for me,

Strolling like a pilgrim to an alter I don't know,

Going somewhere, but only aware, that it's somewhere I must go,

Gazing through the haze of the lazy summer sun,

Searching for a phrase but find no words, not one,

Futile and mute I abandon the lexicon,

My heel to the ground the only sound as I press on,

No feeling of the blessed in this quest for peace,

Just the stress of the distressed seeking still release,

Toes grip the loam trying to get some traction,

The memories of home provide some satisfaction,

I journey to the mill to ease my neck of it's stone,

I've carried it for too long, unassisted and alone,

I'll lay it in it's bed and set it back to grinding corn,

For it's unrelenting weight is just too much to be borne,

And when I lay it down I'll give the miller a reverential nod,

And even though I don't believe, I know that I'll thank God.