All day we had walked. In the late afternoon
we thought we were near. And then I saw it. It shone
blindingly once in the far air and was gone.
We trudged towards. But the dark fell too soon
and back we turned, back home. For the first time
in thirty years it has come back to me,
a map-marked walk on a moor, and a hill-climb,
a nearing, an instant, a shine, a nothing to see.
Ah but I see it now. The journey of age,
a lonely circling, and a forced march of despair,
a countless bruising that has me shouting with rage
at a hidden rock-surface – look! – I am standing where
there are no more paths to take, no ways to roam.
I am at a mountain tarn and I am home.