Walking

I arrive, eye-led along
a rain-gash rut that deepens to earthwork.
I fall from colossal clod feet
into palace-purple sett.

Over wind raining blows
on my wool baffled ears,
confusion shouts
its tussocks of noise.

Fatigue rests in my airway,
stews in the stench
of sheep shit and sweat
tossed into my hotchpot nose.

Cured hands roll wind born
lip-scum morsels. I drink
peat brown earth piss;
my tongue shrinks.

I lie rucksack bent. Search out a stiff
shoulder at bag's bottom,
surface neck-tired, empty
earth-harsh handed.

I rise sorely
rested.

In the stick hungry bog my walking
stick's sunk to pen-size.
My mountain escapes into cloud

and I am benighted.