This is the year the old ones, br the old great ones br leave us alone on the road. br br The road leads to the sea. br We have the words in our pockets, br obscure directions. The old ones br br have taken away the light of their presence, br we see it moving away over a hill br off to one side. br br They are not dying, br they are withdrawn br into a painful privacy br br learning to live without words. br E. P. "It looks like dying"-Williams: "I can't br describe to you what has been br br happening to me"- br H. D. "unable to speak." br The darkness br br twists itself in the wind, the stars br are small, the horizon br ringed with confused urban light-haze. br br They have told us br the road leads to the sea, br and given br br the language into our hands. br We hear br our footsteps each time a truck br br has dazzled past us and gone br leaving us new silence. br Ine can't reach br br the sea on this endless br road to the sea unless br one turns aside at the end, it seems, br br follows br the owl that silently glides above it br aslant, back and forth, br br and away into deep woods. br br But for usthe road br unfurls itself, we count the br words in our pockets, we wonder br br how it will be without them, we don't br stop walking, we know br there is far to go, sometimes br br we think the night wind carries br a smell of the sea...