Trails hold memories
little invitations to wander
down old paths, relive old thoughts
griefs and laughs, long forgotten voices
and familiar elusive scents
And sometimes it feels
like the path remembers me
like it recognises my footfall
anticipates my questions
and answers in windrush and birdsong
So with woolly hat pulled down
and eyes to the horizon
I grieve and long and sing
…and whether my wet face
is down to the stinging wind
or the words I cannot find
only the trail knows.
Don Lowe 