ON LOOKING BACK

When I lose myself

in city streets and rooms

how can I hope to find you?

I have no compass;

I have to depend

on my own erratic shadow

to find my way through the maze.

Where - oh where did I mislay

myself and my young laughter?

Is it the time-table of trivia

that tangles my mind, my words, my feet?

When did I stop climbing mountains,

sleeping open to moonglow and danger?

Now, I rise each morning

like a spectre from my bed,

my fledglings so soon grown.

After all this time

and so many hard seasons,

can I hope to find flowers

blooming on the hill?