With Georgia on my mind,
and coastlines tailored
upon the brim of my sun hat,
I take to the road in canvas shoes,
a crescendo of black man blues
and the song of kissing beer bottles
in my camping bag.

I know I have a soul.
I have a soul and
the promise everything is fine.
No more to the tune of modern frets,
instead the strings on which he sets
our raison d'être, our healing scope,
and parallel joys.

‘Neath London’s rain soaked skies,
shadowed reflections
combine footsteps over pavement,
and to the pigeon’s deep throated call,
under frequency of footfall,
I hear the passing of this empire,
so hurriedly built.

So with hitchhiker’s thumb,
I rise up like steam.
A lightness of living and the
true rejection of security;
my sins become my purity,
and time becomes naught but the measure
of what I have done.