the summer,
always beautiful,
does not survive the storms
that winter brings
pierced with bitter icicles,
shattered hearts,
when lover part
with dreams they cannot mend
I see it every day,
a blizzard of bitter sorrow
snowflakes whirl and fly away
as lovers often do
snow drifts hide the paths we knew
banked around, too close, they hide the longer view
I lost you,
somewhere in the garden,
where a path took a turn
downhill.
There’s a tangle of roses entwined.
Some of them have dark thorns
that cling to your skirts
as you pass.
The paths are a tangle, a puzzle,
twisted around like a rope.
I can’t undo or decipher them
but I heard a distant sound,
amongst all the songs of the birds,
the gentle play of a fountain.
I need to slake my thirst.
I am sure I will find you there.
I met you once by a river.
By water I’ll meet you again
The names of the paths are these;
‘What was and is gone’,
‘What may or may not be’,
‘That which should have been, but isn’t’
Or ‘should not be’ and ‘I wish’
I have travelled them all in the past
Now I travel the path of ‘what is’
That is the path that runs straight ahead
Step by step, I follow,
Whether I run or walk
Or sit on the verge and dream
It leads only to that which will be.
The Dreaming Path 