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.