As the train follows its path home,
the spires of one bridge catch the eye,
a beacon over the river gleaming,
against the murky sky, among the neat rows
of boxes nestled in verdant green, what's left
of a mighty forest that still holds
the seat of mystery, the mirror
to our own wildness we always try to tame.
And beyond, the shadowy mountains
slumbering bodies of giants waiting, waiting.
I must be the odd one out, the stranger
walking through this city, ever lost.
Still yearning for the half-remembered chaos
of a half-forgotten home, full of things
waiting for the poet's eye to transmute it,
spinning the rough tangle to softest silk.
Is it that we see only what we do not grasp?
Is it that to my unhappiness I am too attached?
Even now, I am plotting ways to escape
the things that bind me here, though tis my own feet,
my own hands, my own selfish self.