It remains to be seen if I lose my way
In a meadow somewhere beyond today
In a season foretold perhaps, in a future
Whose accent is a footfall on dry leaves
Or the murmur of a sibyl beside a stream
That sharply flows into the cave mouth,
Into undergrowth none walks out of.
That is one story. There are a few others
Illustrated by Dore: the ancient wood
One moment’s false step will prove
Permanent and unrecognizably pathless:
The forest known in retrospect as Error,
Whose root lies tangled in wandering.
Once upon a time to fall fully awake
And descend to a height. The journey starts
At the omphalos lip, the navel ring
Where the blackened stone circle charms
The wayward into mounting slowly down
Granite steps, past the silenced Geryon,
Deeper and deeper yet, until one thrust
And there’s starlight, hearing a highway’s
Whine, a factory whistle, a far siren
Calling you out of the brambles and stone
Only to find the hillside started from:
Your fabled self, lying there error prone.