Where It Goes, There Is Little Known Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

The present, an oily eel on my path,
Is something I can never hold fast:
It leaves the water, crossing land as a nomad.
Ah, the whereabouts of this wavy staff.
Where it goes, there is little known.
Like an ejected lover out on his ear.
It wriggles off, but to where is unclear.
Maybe it's gone to blow its trombone.
But off it goes, a conduit, unaided.
Without a caring soul, carrying a torch,
A flame, but in whose name abhorred
Was this once sharp sword dulled on a crusade?
When cut and thrust went through water, silky
A hot knife through butter—sodden milky.