A song for the innocent loner,
the plough-hand and fish-boner:
his slow pipe
lowers as he listens
to his own voice, broken through dreaming.
The call of some other flesh awakes
in his dry mouth, where a smile breaks -
the hunchback hills
climbing to the sea-line,
where his silhouette walks sometimes,
leaning, wandering, aching, self-singing
in his head, eremitically ringing,
pondering the shapes
of coin-bright stars,
and rain like shillings spilling into the street.
The dance of a derelict breeze
passes his face with infinite ease:
the splash of a limb
on the solitary rocks.
He looks about; baskets on cobblestones.