With Dylan on the Moor

I walk the past in chapters.
With the who, where and when’s.
Knowledge of my future.
It's the riddle in the wounds.

On this bleached, ruinous moor.
Shrill wind, sadness, secrets.
A sizzling cigarette and tears,
underscore this melody mine.

A little laugh.
The absurdist situations.
How did I travel?
To here from thereabouts.

In April’s wake,
It’s been a simple twist of fate.
To find god and goodness.
And Dylan on the moor.