Towards the beginning of my retreat, I wrote this;
Through trees wearing ice where leaves
once were, I follow the map that
someone kindly laid for me.
Over stile that skates my boots and
into fields wiped clean, skittered
only by claws of creatures who watch
me blunder by from cover.
A hedge a road a bog a bridge a pause to
mop and catch my breath, a buzzard low in
silhouette, too-early lamb almost indivisible from
mother, who all but knits for him a jumper.
I am no-where. At least not where I
ought to be. Not mappable. No surrender to
conspiracies of cartographers.
It came to me that only when we
lose a path can we discover our own.
But these too have all been walked before.