My westward paths by muddied fields,
The leaves turn amber panes in light,
Come displaced windows of stained glass,
Speak glory in a holy field.

How has it come to be-
I truly am just always walking.
In duet and then at sole,
In ruckus and in steady roll,
Like river and like small eddy,
By louder friends and foes so silently,
Well in truth, when stacked against myself,
The tune is still and whispers shelved,
My gaze is high and low upon the streets,
My sweeping sight is quick upon my feet.

The shallows of the shade,
Swim circles underfoot,
By root and jumbled sage,
Play mimes if cared to look,

Oh imitate the day,
By wake of bubbling brook,
And image as we pray,
A life in faithful foot.

Away in hills.
How much I long to find in steps
The pace of unpent thought,
Some kind of room to breath
In every truer sense than flesh,
Darling oak and little stream,
Such quiet beauty stirs the loves,
You are the backdrop of my way,
You are the lodge of weary souls,
For you are whiff and shadow of The Great:
The gentle one who walks in all my ways,
Who knows me and draws out my every song.

A blessed sunny day at rest,
Though walking singing having fun,
In bustle and quiet doldrums,
By flowers and gaunt metal crane,
In people and without again,
But slowly slowly by.

Staring at my pacing feet,
The world is whistling by,
I scrutinise the inward step,
Bring in others to decide,
The path that is for me,
The way the truth provide,
The way of wisdom and more grace,
The way that life does lie.

A carefree day in many words,
Much speaking turns into hearing,
Much hearing to a short reply,
A short reply to lengthy trails:
Out through the misty hills,
Among stark streams and evergreens,
Besides the clamour of the birds,
By falling petals and young shoots,
To fig and empty court. My prayer -
That it would be a seed by grace.

Walking quiet country fields,
Soft shades in polished greens,
The limit of the trees bleeds out,
An elevated blue to brave the sun.

Running where I used to walk,
Through abstract problems compromised,
With countless tactile fractures that,
Lay out a garden path to the very heart of things.

Cresting a familiar hill,
A land far drawn away from waning time,
An outpost in a churning sea of change,
The stones peak slightly more into a toothy smile,
The grass retreating like a parting beard,
Rolling underneath a sky reshuffled,
Molding to a slightly warbled shape,
Here when big and small, when cold and hot,
When sprinting and when hobbling.

Erratic strides to the own end,
Stop-starting down the weary roads,
The path draws quick but slowly
Trails a touch further than the time,
Tomorrow will be spent but through!

Running out of words,
I find myself in open meadows,
Spacious in the fallen chatter's echo,
The air is richer with sole babbling streams.

How one longs for friendship without words,
Yet prattles on in fear and harsh forgetting,
That good company not chatter is a blessing,
That to be known - to walk beside,
Continues where mere words can hardly dream.

Step beside meandered streams,
In its tumble down old mercury's track,
A bowing breeze turns all to walking pace,
The pretty worlds is frozen still,
To frame the fawn among the reeds,
To halt the heavens through the trees.

Late night march through mottled stone,
A world just hidden from the street,
Backing into shadow in its mighty flight,
From lighted pillars to the underbelly of grand arches.

A march through many lands,
Sight seeing in the up-tilt breaths,
Which punctuate long dips into the abstract realm,
Where all is meddling with notes - a striving to conceptualise,
At times berated with sematic walks,
In others lonely witnessing long prose,
Yet others in an open discourse of ascent,
What a pilgrimage this is!

Returning to my well-worn tracks,
By babbling streams that lace the streets,
Threading steps through weaving cars,
Away, away, on cobbled bridges to the sleepy west.

A walk beside fenced rolling grass,
Old village houses and their twinkling glass,
A pebbled path away to depths of civility,
To hidden lodges lambasted by their shrubbery,
I never see the people of these houses,
Perhaps one day they'll stand in sight -
Neat shirt all tucked and blouses.
An image that can't help but be,
So different from the bare reality.

A journey superposed with steps,
Interweaving 'till it's full and brimming,
Intertwined in conversation or a gentle look,
To green, bustle and horizoned seas,
Out to the olden arches by the streets,
Beyond the humming glow of signs,
That greet the bold faced halls beside,
Then into friends and through the curtain,
Of chattered games and rippled laughter,
Then through these fiery coals by open water,
Into the flowing verbal steps to pleasant places,
As eve begins to sear the sky the steps submerge,
Into the lapping tide and take a turn to deeper blue.
Now hurried to the bustle and the arches,
Interposing with a quickened sight,
The journey home encased in verbal steps,
Until the silence reigns conferred by night.

A wooded walk through half-lit night,
Cascading from the moon pale light,
Wrestles through charcoal smoke to sight,
It's bone white glow submerged in plight,
Then busting through again with might,
The moon makes charcoal dust and smoke
Like passing shadows beneath a pristine cloak.

Morning walks through livened wood,
The air is crisp and fresh to gasp,
I see the delicate birds fly by,
Ornate wooden sculptures in their hazel coats,
They make another branch their path,
And they roll it out into the air,
They tap the wind and melt into its turn,
These wooden crafts and beautiful things.

Walking on the right side,
When daily I walk left the road,
The world unfolds a little changed,
A clearer view to open skies,
The clouds like golden whispers streaking through,
Then purple scars then orange plumes,
It's beauty and its awe at last,
Just from a daily path the same,
Yet its different and I know it too,
Another side unfolded in my eyes,
Another glory refracted through the haze of life.

I'm transported to a rainy world in blue,
The sky is shaded mint - the drops of rain a gentle hue,
To dash the world in reverie,
The verdant meadow splashes new,
Like watercolour on the air above,
A turquoise in the lazy droplets,
Glistening the grass like morning dew,
Abandon and a reckless walk,
To feel the falling rain strike softly on my hair,
To spend a moment as the pitter patter,
To watch it colour glasses sparkling and blue,
To patter by the dreamy view.

Walking on a snowy afternoon,
A sight as enchanted as its rare,
It does not deign to linger soon,
Like faeries in the molting air,
I walk on slowly as you do,
Beneath light sift to palest glare,
My mind trots on a little tune,
To make a poem strung and fair.

Above meandering paths,
The sky remains the same,
Though crushing rain pours down,
And makes the air full brimming,
The sky above remains always,
Though ground transmutes to flowing mud,
Thick through the grey and fullest air,
The sky above holds tight the rain,
It's shall not cease to guide its stay.

---

**Oxford Interview Reflection**
Keble 1, 11:30AM
I...
Was not picking up,
What was being put down,
And came out with a frown.

Hertford 2, 5:50PM
Somewhere I have found a path,
But is it too meandering?
A farce. Hard to trace,
The extent of the matter,
Through the vapour obscured,
But I took a path at least.

**INTERVIEWS COMPLETE**

Travel is as travel does,
Sipping on the cooling air I walk,
In shadows cast and through the pale,
And evening glow that takes a perch upon my toes,
Then to the belly of a metal snake,
A gentle rumble then I feel a tug,
It blankets me and presses in but I press more,
I walk along to find its teeth,
And wait for when it opens wide,
I am in a place that's not the same,
I am in a place that's far from home.

Released unto the cityscape,
I am so small at large,
And join the bustle floating through,
If floating were my measured steps,
I am so small at large,
The clatter louder, louder still,
Through tunnels swallow space between,
I am so small at large,
And find a path through cityscapes,
To where I set to be.

Travel by the street lamps fierce,
Through their white and saffron glows,
Deep into shadows, concrete folds,
Lightly over leaves and pebbles low,
Away away, I walk away,
Through darkened streets and shadows stray,
To stand in light and sing His praise,
With my people here in foreign lands.

Walking places less the same,
I mold the streets to memory frames,
And listen to the urban sprawl,
I've been here twice or not at all,
The air rolls over smoke filled streets,
That open wide in midday breeze,
And echo with my quickened steps.

In the quiet walks come eve,
Woods are painted yellow-red,
The leaves are piled and glistened wet,
Assembled to chaotic tiles,
To build tomorrow's soil and life,
For shoots to rise up from their place.

_Intro_

Come, walk in the rain with me,
Don't you know the Lord is near,
My heart burns within me,
And I am alive.

_Walking_

The colours striking at my soul,
So vibrant in their passing by,
The light transfigured in my eyes,
The splendor on the leaves and grass,
Glorious.

_A praise_

Blessed morning dew,
I lift my eyes to you,
In the rain and storms that brew,
I fix my eyes on you.

Faithful,
You are Faithful,
When I wake you're always there,
When I rest you will remain.

_Walking_

The rain is wide and fills the air,
To silence I am called to walk,
He's with me in the pressing rain,
And wisdom calls for fear of God.

_The Grey Meadow_

Washed in greys and sombre nights,
Great skies above in broken might,
The colours stripped but hardly bleak,
They cry for justice in the rain,

Trees in sackcloth, mourning clouds,
They call for lowly ponderance,
For noble beauty reconciled,
For holiness in open fields.

_Walking_

The bright is caught in puddles thin,
And scattered to the plucking rain,
What grace is this that I can feel,
What it is to be.

_What it is to be_

What it is to be,
That you knit and know me,
Loved me from when you thought of me,
Predestined me for fullness of life,

That I would know what it is to dance,
That I would know what it is to walk,
To see, to smell, to touch, to hear,
To taste your goodness in the rain.

_Outro_

And as I peek at passing time,
I'm tugged to rush in dripping rain,
Yet you remain.
And calm my heart before it burns again,

I know that you will make a way,
For I am walking in the rain with you,
And so I find a delayed train,
What providence you walk me through!

Rain walking through the air between,
Waltzing verticle to my feet,
Greeting red clothe over my head,
It's soft chattering scatters on the concrete.

Roasting in the sun with Dad,
Along the heaped up concrete so,
Atop the sprawling brickwork so,
Aside the neat cube hedges tall,
Our legs don't haste like prior days,
But walk half fast,
But walk half slow,
And meet in middle heel to toe,
And roast in Summer rays,
For lunchtime walks do friendships grow.

Winding paths,
Converge into one,
Like fleeting bursts they multiply like streams,
Then they consolidate in a bustling walk,
It pools at a reservoir,
And people swim amalgamated with the rushing tide:
Waltzers,
Rapid rushers,
Wandering walkers waking in a clockwork stew,
And the dam bursts,
And I'm flowing in the rapids now,
And the creaking train beneath my feet is herald of a timely trip made once again.

Sunnied heads,
Bob along to thudding steps,
And greener fields find wandering impressions on their face,
Dodging horses now long gone.

Muddied shoes,
And mucky adventures clothe the morning,
I'm walking with some mighty men,
That is to say those clothed in righteous robes like mine,
Not of themselves but from our brother,
And in each passing day they grow like him,
So talking is great fun with them,
They like to tell and laugh and listen.

Rolling fields,
Flow under our treading shoes,
And the world seems to lurch backwards,
Leaving us down along the path beneath,
Punctuating the notes of talked out tunes and hurried feet,
A good thing is found,
In a weary walk of Father and Son.

Talking heads,
Utter crisp syllables,
In quest of articulated clarity,
A common desire for understanding,
And they walk the streets paved by similar wanderers from ages past,
Who too wished for understanding and knowledge,
Who too wished for truth and clarity,
O Great towering walls and deepest libraries,
Do you contain such lofty things?

Walking shadows,
Walk between the longing shade,
And talk between the leaning trees,
On mud, gravel and stone beneath their darkened feet,
Overlapping sometimes,
Doubled up and down to split beyond,
They silent walk and talk in pocketed hands,
And gaze sideways at numerous stars.

Wide eyes,
Move slowly in a fierce breeze,
Wrapped up in fluttering eyelids,
A weary, little itch lines their periphery,
They want to dance over the road,
Yet on the path they remain.

A soft crackle of snow,
Chases my shadow,
Dancing under the chilly pale light,
And waltzing with my shoes.

A cool breeze,
Caresses my nose leaving it red,
And sleepy clouds seem to fall off their axes,
Down, down into the waking land below.

A quiet walker,
Trudges on to his home,
A faithful friend limps beside,
It's not a long way now.

How he loves him.

Broken shoe,
Unbridled joy,
A little less serious,
A little less 'mysterious'.

O broken shoe,
How does it feel,
To peel back and flop,
To break and kneel,

To be tread on,
Yet yield,
And support my weighty soles,
Through mire and field?

O broken shoe,
Unbridled joy,
I take myself a little less
Serious...
Maybe a little glue will hold you together?

Walking slowly,
Is a great pleasure of mine,
To breath deeply,
And gaze at the world through eyes that shine.

Often I am walking quickly,
To a lesson,
To a train,
To a service,
To my home again.

I like the moments when I can walk slowly,
To take in the sights,
And watch the many people passing by,
People are quite beautiful, right?

Slow and quick,
Humble and proud,
Growing and in step with old patterns.

There's great hope for them,
Someone's nocking, you see.