Is every walk a walk of death?
Across the marshes to the isle,
Traversing fears and passing ghosts,
To rise at last amongst the lost.
Is every site a monument:
A shrine to memory, life and love,
A locus for the wanderer’s truth,
A proof that we had meaning once?
Each walk may seem to set us free,
To live at last amongst the souled,
To feel the flow from earth to sky,
To be apart and yet to be.
I recognise the way ahead:
Each wondrous view will mark the dead.