I walked a long way for death, early this morning,
while clouds scudded above,
and gusts surged in the branches.
I walked to see again the spread of decay on the track,
the guts and eyes gone to scavengers,
the ribs picked clean, not in a restaurant,
the insects and microbes at their work,
the wool dispersing along the ground,
a source of nesting material.
I walked a long way this morning, alone,
to see again the skeletal grimace of my future.
But when I got there, the farmer had been before me,
and taken away my memento mori.
Only the wool remained, scattering to the four winds.
Only on my longest journey
is a dead body at the end guaranteed.