In his last years
back in Devon, good ale at the local, wrists iron scarred,
a shuffling curiosity laughed at by the young, peering at the morris dancers.
Beaten, yeah. Bewildered maybe still by the rancor of the saints
maybe a bullock's heart strung above his door bristling with pins
gift of an old family friend. The moor's foggy greens and greys suit him now,
shades that bored him so much once that he flung himself over the edge of the world
and found such beauty that once seen, could not stay. He was naive, yeah,
dreaming of a better world as his neighbors killed people with dogs,
"that twine in fine meanders through the meads, making so sweet
a murmuring noise to hear as would even lull the senses with delight a sleepe."
And the Mattapoiset girl, and that rogue puritan like him, hair flying
round the maypole. On odd clear nights when here the sky goes lavender
he dreams of Merry Mount, that world now a dream world again.
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