The Vagabond Path

Eventually I will exchange this mead
for coarse, dry grass on autumn ridges, far
from the sedateness of the small, white towns

and villages that look up to these heights
with frowns, like a good citizen will look
at anyone beyond his range, from prince

to whore; for slate and boulders; for the width
of unencumbered fields, an open sky
and rolling clouds before a pale, white sun

that may not warm me - but then, neither could
the summer's brilliance. Here, at least, I will
draw warmth from going my own way. Although

the path is long and hard, there's vigour in
the views that my old feet keep going past:
My own expanse and my own life at last.