I’d rather wait a while
amongst these trees,
before I shamble across that fallow field
or open its gated stile.
Surely when the moment’s right
when sounds have dimmed to a distant murmur
when words and books and even lips are blurred
then I’ll hesitate no more; I’ll not hold tight
To what should be discarded or disbursed,
but with a fecund blaze of thought, like a deer in excited flight
across whatever ground remains, I would finally act
a tale that has been, at excessive length, rehearsed.
For each locked joint, each painful step, each a bitter climb,
the day will come, stuffed pig stuck with basting poles.
I’ll say, enough, this path’s been doled its role of tears:
Next station sports a sign: You’re welcome here.