This is the year the old ones,the old great onesleave us alone on the road.
The road leads to the sea.
We have the words in our pockets,obscure directions.
The old oneshave taken away the light of their presence,we see it moving away over a hilloff to one side.
They are not dying,they are withdrawninto a painful privacylearning to live without words.
E.
P. "It looks like dying"-Williams: "I can'tdescribe to you what has beenhappening to me"-H.
D. "unable to speak."The darknesstwists itself in the wind, the starsare small, the horizonringed with confused urban light-haze.
They have told usthe road leads to the sea,and giventhe language into our hands.
We hearour footsteps each time a truckhas dazzled past us and goneleaving us new silence.
Ine can't reachthe sea on this endlessroad to the sea unlessone turns aside at the end, it seems,followsthe owl that silently glides above itaslant, back and forth,and away into deep woods.
But for usthe roadunfurls itself, we count thewords in our pockets, we wonderhow it will be without them, we don'tstop walking, we knowthere is far to go, sometimeswe think the night wind carriesa smell of the sea…
