So he left, half a world and fifteen years behind him.
Back to where he felt he belonged.
Never crossed the seas again, instead,
walked in the wild weather, with the rain dogs
forever at heel.
Sometimes sheltered from the wind,
listening for the rain, stayed awhile.
Waited, atoning, at the top of a cliff,
in unbidden meditation
Watched another sun sink, although the stars
confused him, his compass spun.
The weather shrunk him,
skin and bone hardened like old wood.
He took back to the old beliefs,
and the certainly of uncertainty.
He travelled the far abroad, only within the land.
Seeking out the good old, the new ancient.
Brought it back, captured in images.
Almost part of the landscape,
he became known, liked and fortunate.
Long walks on endless tracks.
Green right, blue left, blue left, grey right.
Some worried.
But he was only making up lost time,
as he grew old,
and contentment became his watchword.

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