lanes run
through the night untrodden
hard to find as
dream doors in walls,
the doors in the
squalid cell to the place
from which no
re-capture is possible;
safe and unmapped, not all end at the grave
tiny child under cataract sky,
treading alone the howling
lane
under stark
windbreak pines of Pialligo;
knowing then that
there are lanes
like whole childhoods,
whole lives, whole countries,
there are lanes that
will run across your face,
ever deeper as they are shunned,
lanes that join at
unexpected corners,
lanes that peter
out, nondescript
as cotton-reels, and begin again …
lanes numerous as lines
lanes marking well the world
lanes beyond time
and space and love
lanes loud as
strings in the primal
wind
lanes quiet as God
in a sandstone nook.
Wonderful poem.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Rosemary. Returned to an old theme I've written about before.
ReplyDeleteThis moved me so much, Robbie. I find returning so valuable. There is always more.
ReplyDelete