A drifter goes on a nature walk with theosopher/poet Francis Thompson.

(For Francis)


I borrow from Francis Thompson
with his countenance firmly indebted in inadmonition
that eagles gasp for air with winded breath
upon a roadside diner
where meals are uniformly free.
Dressed in lace and frills arrested to a hungry eye
gilded daydreams shine in the heart of heavenly stars
from whence their brightness comes.

I am a minstrel to my own folly
wandering with a roadside prophet
grasping grapes of ardor
from farmed out groves of over abundant fields
left ripening in their happiness but despairing
with petty needs, in tears of falling dew
decaying roots of long planted histories
distilled from wines of faith endowed.
I'm left to wonder the irony
grapes hang like clothes upon a line.

Francis takes his time to the clear an opium-like haze
from his window seat staring out into meadows
fresh with cabbage memories
bunched in heads of armies still in battle
raged against a madness only devils and demons fear
A man of faith bides his time with honor
humility enclosed with in his heart
meekness reaches forth to grasp the clouds to ring them dry
falling into golden meadows, summers full of fruitful hours
not wasted but complete with physical and mental beauty
exercised in joyous miracle and loving the gentleness.

My how the wind loves to laugh
when the sun has shown her grace
painting gold a noonday sky in creation's glory.