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.