Wood Grain

Time to talk to myself. Rick, you've been on this planet for over 47 revolutions around the Sun. You've spent time with lovely lads and lasses. You've ridden many a horse, run with dogs and played with cats. You've never wrestled a bear.

Are you goin' anywhere?

A young woman stands in the glen, her dulcimer echoing round, no one but you listenin' and admirin' her ornamented blue dress.

Who are you-u-u?

Not English. Not Scottish. Not Irish. Not French. Not German. Named after Richard I of England, Richard the Lionhearted, the Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, Duke of Gascony, Lord of Ireland, Lord of Cyprus, Count of Anjou, Count of Maine, Count of Nantes and Overlord of Brittany; Melek-Ric ou Malek al-Inkitar; deemed both ‘a bad son, a bad husband, a selfish ruler, and a vicious man’ and 'a bad son, a bad husband and a bad king, but a gallant and splendid soldier.' Still, only a name.

Pink, freckled skin. Red hair turned white.

Average citizen. Likes the pints. Not much for haggis or vegemite.

A wanderer in the woods. A-wanderin' in the world. Wonderin'.

Where am I goin'?

'Tis plain as the gypsum growing in a Mexican cave.

I'm growin' up, not goin' nowhere. One direction's enough for me: out there.