The Last Giant Tortoise

You don't understand, do you?
It's okay...
we'd lie under a crushing trove by now.
You're the dead man walking. Slowly.
Lonesome George, you are the last of your kind,
the cut already made. But you don't understand,
do you?

Going back to sleep an hour is a long time.

"Upon a hillside, sheep-dotted
a shepherd and soft flute player
enacts the old tale without end
but you meet the scene a stranger.
Walk the bank of crystal water
a heron thus follows her long bend
nearing the heart of her saga
but you must leave, a friend."

In the unworked fields - undiscovered caves.
There - unknown small creatures. They wax and wane
by alien rhythms; obey arcane witchcrafts to survive.
And your unbidden thoughts, secure beneath you armour,
pilgrim without partner, are likewise heaped
among countless phenomena beyond keeping. 

Sleep, an hour more.

"Was understanding completed
before he piped, the player-
romanticised, russet-coated
but far remote for the stranger?
Was there ever a better time
or scene upon the river's bend
lay down claims to nouveau wisdom
adopting the ways of a friend."


A mind within a shell you have spoken
to a brother. Your final words
no more giant than yourself.
Your humility humbles me.
Mix your dreams with mine
and rest in peace.

By Adam Whitworth