At first there is loose gravel.

A handhold is hard to find

so I scramble, crawl really,

until the hills gather round and a path appears,

pocked by rocks, lined with brambles, air and

the patches of light and dark that mark the 

progress of the sun, a once reliable guide to

time, distance and direction.

 

The hills open up to passage

just beyond their zenith

where the swamp takes hold.

Trees, twisted and sodden

suck at the mud-green water,

but my attention is lost in detail:

broken laces, pictures of long dead family,

the ducks that return each year to feed

on seeds and stale bread,

words littering the path,

trying to form sentences that repeat endlessly,

circle upon circle.

 

The map is useless.

The tangle of directions is a dense web of confusion.

Lost now in the high grass marsh

I cannot lose my head.

It is all at risk.

I am too close to home.