In the fragile folds

and flattened peaks

of a perfect world:

a thousand journeys

and as many regrets,

yield to the touch

of a wayfarerís hand.


Out here, Iím strung

beneath restless skies

like the national grid,

where the urgent whisper

of events on the wind

tell a tale of contingence;

of lies underfoot,


Of places scattered

along vectors of power

that tower overhead;

for these paths that Iíve trodden

and beaten to your door,

are but lines on a map

of incommensurate scale.




June 2003


© Les Roberts 2012