Which Way?.

Tongue touched by the biting wind
Caressed by flippant leaves
Devon mud constricts my feet
And cold the river weaves.

Shall I cross the dew hung valley
That leads to the fingers of the sea?
Or turn back down that dank alley
To-wards my destiny.

The waters whispered warning
The willows sad and drawn
A wagtail's plaintive calling
Distract me from my dawn.