Thrown forward from the past to break upon the bread was cast the scattering, if that's the word,
that was the word.

I heard it not so far away
as if I hear words as
I lay
asleep.


Dreams, they told me, but I know  dreams can hold me tight when all is certain to be lost and in these dreams from far away when words are ripening like hay I make them all my own.

My home was always home to me, no castles there for I was free to wander through the cornfields which led out to the rushing brook where once I took the vow that somewhere some day somehow I'd find the way to hear the  words thrown, wish I'd known then what I know not now and yet ignorance though no defence is the only one I have.