The rain makes the cobblestones slick,

And the map in my pocket is

Stuck together with damp.

A pitter-patter voice says

You don’t know where you’re going.

I do not want to know where I am going.

God asked me to stop thinking so much,

I heard Him praying in the teeth

Of the cheerful buskers’ instruments

And the jingling of their earnings.

What some will spend on room and board

And others on their daily bread

Of whisky drops to keep them warm.

His prayer builds chorus on top of chorus.

I think and think and think and think

Of the economic boost of tourism,

Of cathedrals ruined by a camera flash,

Of the painful fit of my right boot,

Of special treatment for the ill,

Of the books I’ve yet to read,

Of the joys I’ve let slip by,

Of the friends who I call mine,

Of a lover’s spilling red.

And mostly I think about

The voice of God in every hand

And how He stands the bustling crowd.