My friends say Murdoch, you have got to

travel.  And I too will go on journeys.

The ritual voyages of discovery we all must

make shall be mine also.  Then, upon my

return I will wear Europe and Mexico and

Australia on my sleeves as proud as

a sargeant his stripes.  Like all pilgrims

returned from their shrine, I too shall glow

with a holy light.  Until that time, ticketed

and expectant at pier or station the journeys

I make are taken seated at my window

pen in hand staring at the river that ran

through my boyhood and still runs.

The light on the trees on the river bank

changes a thousand times a day.

Soon enough leaves will break open.

The old wheels spin and spin again.

Look now, my hand is glowing,

 

                                                 softly glowing.