To you Dylan with my own voice I pay tribute
With as natural a grace as though you were near,
Remembering in a dark night, your hand in mine
When you told me to think of myself, to go abroad
And over the bounds with my poetry: to care not a fig
Pig or jig for anyone, for it was Rabelais all the way, or
Then drew out the lines, the sonorous images
Of my own work that pleased your heart and eye:
                             …light birds sailing
        A ploughed field in wine
        Whose ribs expose grave treasures
        Inca’s gilt-edged mine,
        Bats’ skins sin-eyed woven
        The long-nosed god of rain…
So many years ago, the poem I would forget.
How many years was this?
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