On the Road to Walsingham
A weekend morning, a shadowless day,
such anonymity of sky;
so few rays of sunlight piercing the clouds,
clouds sad enough to cry -
in patchy heavens above the fields of green.
His mind sneaks off to dream,
when going past those fields, as he rides in a car,
upon some distant theme:
of grandest castles made of ice,
and palaces of air.
To pass the miles and fill some time
by thinking of elsewhere.
But odd indeed maybe it seems, he cannot choose
which dreams to take;
soon thoughts of other worlds pass on,
he is once more awake,
to see upon the hills of England
a sight quite strange to see;
yet one all must have seen before -
in the land of the Iceni:
Mexican bandits going for their guns,
as if about to draw;
but all tied together, like prisoners on a chain -
a paradox for sure.
Though holstered still, two guns a man they had -
And for faces - simply lattice masks.
Shackled convicts left with pistols;
'Can this be right?' he asks.
And then a smile across his face did creep,
As he recalled that tale,
Of Don Quixote's fight with giants,
That clash of sword and sail.