Telling us so much
it is so much the more
withholds. So was he?
The clothes a labourer.
clothers: coarse trousers torn
jackett, a mole skin
cap. But that volume
Under the arm - a
headge-poet, a scholar
by rushlight, we look
closer: No soil in that
eye, but light.
generated by a
mind charging itself
at its own sources.
Radiant soul, shrugging.
the types ignorance
off, he hastens towards
us, to the future
we inhabit and must
welcome him to, but
nervously, all too
aware of the discrepency
with his expectations.
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