Writing Poetry

In front of the bishop and me

a blind man with a white stick

walking up a path alongside

the stone wall above the river,

beating the earth rhythmically,

a metrical beat,

carefully placing one foot

in front of the other.

Strong stress, weak stress,

repeating the pattern.

A pattern surely, step by step.

Bapbap du bap!

Occasionally tapping the wall 

to make sure it’s still there.

In his rhythm yet not,

deliberately slower,

as not to overtake him,

the bishop and I talking

to the same beat,

our words taken away

by the wind high

over the wall.