Dark white of husky moon
Louring over pines;
Iron woods that shake the wind
High on high;
Jarring brook of clock-cold water
Barking banks with stony touch
And ticking due true-north.
Wanders long the trepid trekker,
Fingers knighted, breath-fog witching,
Rock-boots laced with rust-pine-pins
And lashed with river-blood.
Lips that speak of lips chapped bare,
A dormant tongue that hears no man
Embroider balding clothes.
Chapel-lifed, he threads through thickets
Rived by crackling overtones;
Night-bright falls on fish-flash scalp
Star-crossed by sparring bramble-scratch;
Timeworn trees who tweak Time’s nose
Pose over shuffling young old man;
Snapping water matches steps
And sticks to tick-tock marching ambling gait of Samuel Jones.
Son of moon, pulsar of night,
Cold lamp of life that shines unseen of light
The point through, pointing due north by compass
Of tendril-straight needling of pin-tingling stream.
Houred each minute, Sam Jones keeps lock-walking a-ream.
Houred each minute, Sam Jones keeps lock-walking a-beam.