I am the Wandering Order
I am the wandering order,
the cloth of my robe is rough the leather of my belt is worn and frayed, I do not need fresh bread, though I remember its warm smell My eyes do not see the hills beyond this river Too many leaves have hurried down its course (flowers too and rings) though the fallen hazels are long gone, but the old stone bridge survives like a harsh tooth in a scuffed skull and when the buzzard circles I do not cower (I would, stranger on the bad road, if I could) but I keep the cross, I read words, I am the wandering order. |