Smells of leaves, beer, petrol, piss, newsprint, tea
Will come to filter England back: "cheers, mate;
Where've you fucking been? Long time no see.
It's just like you to be so fucking late."
Round the world in eighty years is close to it.
The need to say as little as you can
Returns : you suppose you got held up a bit.
And in fact, it's much easier to move on
With a joke or two, sit beside a pint,
It may take years to shift the ideas
You had on a high plateau or by the frayed
Edge of seas, longer than your span allows
Perhaps, but it's the nature of your trade
Not to know exactly what is what and why,
Though you may try; surprise is its own reward
As you top a ridge and hear the sharp cry
Of monkeys give warning of a leopard
Stalking in jungle shadows, sly and lithe;
You recognise the hunter, don't you,
As a creature, ruthless, of your kith
And kin, which does what it knows how to do?
Years of speculation bring you to that;
So much comes in and very little out.
Sometimes you'll want to keep your mind empty;
Thought may be circular and unproductive,
Seditious, disloyal, a travesty
Of the model by which you're supposed to live;
For rules apply here, which you could ignore
On the road. Soldiers collect in a crowd
Here, to check your credentials. " It's the war,"
They say, "on terrorists, and you could
Be one." And you might just be if you knew
Your potential in this interesting time.
A blank mind's the best way through,
For you can find in it a sort of calm.
Yet subversive seeds lie there still, and wait
For the rain to help them germinate.
And nearly said; the thought turned to vapour,