Where It Goes, There Is Little Known Poem by Mark Heathcote

The present, an oily eel on my path,
Is something I can never holdfast:
It leaves the water, crosses land a nomad
Ah, the whereabouts of this, wavy staff
Really where it goes, there is little known.
Like an ejected lover out on his ear
It wriggles off but to where is unclear
Maybe it's gone to blow its own, trombone.
But off it goes a conduit unaided
Without a caring soul; carrying a torch,
A flame, but in whose name abhorred
Was this once sharp sword dulled on a crusade?
When cut and thrust went through water silky
A hot knife through butter—sodden milky.