The Fool's Journey

He is dressed in multi-coloured rags stitched
together; a beggared harlequin. All
he owns is carried in a knotted hand-
kerchief tied to a hickory staff,
slung over one bony shoulder. He walks
a rough track wending over hills, where sheep-
cropped grasses and wild rosemary throng his
stony path. Straight ahead, there is a sheer
drop and he has one foot raised, suspended
over the edge. A small white dog nips at
his blistered heels, ripping at his britches.
It is not clear if it is savaging
the traveller or warning him about
his plight. But the fool keeps walking, with eyes
fixed upon a butterfly and does not
heed the precipice. Perhaps there is a
lower road we cannot see, just out of sight.
He has the trusting heart of innocence
and treads where wiser men would turn away.
His journey takes him to new vistas, yet
there is never an arrival, for each
hamlet with a welcoming hearth also
stands upon a trail that leads him further.