To See How Far It Is (Poetry)

I have been there and back a number of times —
to the edge of madness and beyond
reason’s sagging gate —
past all the signs that say GO BACK —
the skull and crossbones warning clearly indicates
the danger and the risk I take
whenever I return.

The journey is a different one each trip —
the landscape of the mind is subject to
a variety of seasons
where even Spring has colours dipped in sadness
and Summer is a burning desert where
the cactus blooms at midnight
to be pollinated by a random dream.

And how far mountains beckon through the mist —
their peaks capped with the raw eternal snow
of love that melts and freezes — layers deep
its smug aloofness —
the blue-grey rocks beneath a scrambling heap
of failure upon failure — a rough list
of all those might-have-beens.

Cool winds of Autumn tunnel — burrow through
memory and chill the blood-warm lie
turning sense to skeletons of leaves —
no map of trees unfolds to travel by —
the compass spins
and keeps on spinning true
to chaos and the wide horizon’s curve.

I do not know the ground beneath my feet
nor recognise a landmark in the dark
avenue — the waving cypress stream
stretching onwards...
the sky has slipped away
and hides itself from strangers who have lost
the threads that tie to meaning.

Finding the way home is touch and go —
the trail of breadcrumbs never worked for me
nor navigation by some shifty star —
a shepherd moon decides it — hanging low
as harvest at the corner of my eye
blue and silver — winking
its pale light.

I cannot estimate how many miles
or gauge the likely hours I’ve been gone —
it varies every time — conditions change
and I am older since I first began
to go exploring — crossing that uncharted plain
only I can reach or stand in wonder at the view —
unsure I’ll ever find the place again.