III
In the wood, there is a bird, his song arrests you and makes you blush. There is a clock which doesn't strike. There is a bog with a nest of peelie-wallie beasties. There is a cathedral which plummets and a lake which rises. There is a deserted cab left in a copse or which runs down the path, beribboned. There is a group of wee players in costume, glimpsed on the road, crossing the edge of the wood. There is, finally, when one is hungry and thirsty, somebody chasing you away.
IV
I am the saint at prayer on the kerse, like the gentle beasts that graze at the edge of the sea of Palestine. I am the armchair philosopher. Branches and rain hurl themselves against the sash windows of the library. I am the pedestrian of the high road, through the stunted growth; the roar of the sluices drowns my footsteps. I stare at the melancholic golden wash of the sunset. I might well be the abandoned bairn on the jetty reaching out to the high seas, the little footman following the path, whose brow touches the sky. The paths are uneven. The braes are covered with broom. The air is still. How far yon the birds and burns are! It can only be the end of the world, advancing.
