Walking

The open gate beckons my soul
into its dark solitude.
The warm sodium glow speaks of
sepia and fairies.
Victoria where are you now?
Do you look down upon your
subjects with mirth and
amusement in this later day?

Do the foibles of the people reflect or
reject the foibles of your court?
Once through the gate, that iron gate
in its limestone arch,

I choose the left-hand path.
It’s habit now, but this is the path of
darkness and mystery.
I follow it to its inevitable conclusion in
picturesque ruins.
Where else could such a path ever end?

How many paths lead this way?
How many gateways lead here?
Whose is the unmarked headstone in the West,
Past the stags and stables and gates?

October 2004