Acknowledging Wordsworth.
alwaysI was hitching somewhere through a dust bowl with peoplescattered like stones or Knuckleboneswith Horses in the Stable or Thread the Needlea childhood lost and dropped between mountain rangesand seasons with blue lakesI didn't see where travellers poured maps into their glassesto give cheers this was the Ida Valleyand in March it was mild and when I wandered lonelythe haberdashery storewas closed while my washingwas drip-drying in an aqua-concrete room and when it was dryI left again hitching a ride with stoic storieshardier than my cheap soles that were all I could affordeighteen and wandering lonely through Otago