The cobbled roads
Are bestowed with toppled leaves,
A verdant dressing that lathers the lanes
Of old Warfield, a warning
To you and me, that these
Estranged lanes are fragments
Of a greater majesty;
The venerable body
Of old Warfield, and
Are you one who rambles?
One who marches
In the bitter spit
Of frozen streams, and
One who claws at the hedges
For famished berries
That wither into dreams,
And are you the one
That I shall take with me?
Oh, are you what
He so eloquently spoke of?
(The song that Eliot sought)
No, you are the liberal feather
Flailing in the breeze, and
The one who
Tethers to the seeds, oh
I should have been woeful Prufrock
Confessing on the fiendish walk
Of old Warfield’s lanes.