Sometimes its right to just walk without purpose,
To wander out of constraints,
Into the blurry and out of focus,
Away from comforting arms,
That hold you, support you with their wildish, other worldly charms.
You cant walk there, access restricted,
But why must we abide only what we are permitted?
This world is free, except for just there,
Except for you, except for them.
Why is that place yours and this place mine?
And everywhere in between is possessed, processed, ruled and defined,
To make sure that not one of us steps over this line, over this border,
If they let us wander free, they’ll be flattened by disorder.
By chance, a moment of togetherness conspired to ensure where I land,
But somehow I feel entitlement, as though my place on this earth was planned,
Because by one stroke of luck I fell out in a country full of wealth, full of health, full of friendly faces, safe places, warmth, abundance of food and never-ending chances,
Does that make it mine?
And if it is mine, can I give it away?
To someone else who never had chance to live this way.
There is beauty here, despite this manmade path,
Wilderness beckons, but fear holds me back,
There is beauty here, amongst the tall pine trees,
amongst manmade destruction, this woodland still breathes
Pylons, blights on this landscape, fluorescent dots on trees- which man marked your impending fatality?
Which man took ownership of another’s life?
without considering what is already lost,
without seeking permission,
without pondering the cost.
“This woodland is managed”
but not with care and devotion…
Tell me, which tree gave you your ill deserved promotion,
To the top of the pile, while you plot their downfall,
Bulldoze with your brightly coloured machines because you feel that human need trumps it all.
Back on the road again,
I can’t seem to get lost, wandering aimlessly but carefully, clumsily but regimentedly back to the bracken and the moss,
All of these paths seem to lead me back again, and again,and here I am again,
Clambering through the trees, I finally find a place,
But suddenly I am in the midst of a forgotten cycle race,
I wander into the depths of the woods,
Then sit for a time, immersed in the darkness, the wilderness, the shoots entwined, the faint, sweet smells of the pine.
Then I’m moving again, back to the road, back to just wandering,
Back to just aimlessly pondering,
Loss and space, fear and fate.
Man was here, declares that sign, declares that pile of rubbish I find,
But why can’t we move without leaving a trace?
Can’t we stop to consider, at least, our own impending fate?