Poetry, The Key in the Door and other poems

The packhorse bridge

It’s as though you’ve arrived without noticing

all the travelling, without a plan for the journey.

Not without luggage of course, but you can set

that down, get rid of it at any time.

It’s hard to recall where the paths converged

to lead to this place and whether there were

signs along the way that you failed to read.

And why this sense of unease?

You know the inhabitants. But do you speak

the language and do you know what it is you

want to ask, which way you want to go?

Now it’s getting cold on the bridge, the water’s

running fast and the light is definitely fading.

You’d better not stand here too long without

deciding which road to take.