My thoughts can sometimes run with no regard
To worldly matters or mundane affairs;
Like children playing tag along a plain
And stooping on a whim to flowers pick;
I wonder whether I can set their course
And as their parent sway their nimble flight
Or maybe they establish their own road
Or are determined by external clout.
Do thoughts compose the character of man,
Or does his insight govern these strange sprites?
Can parents shape the nature of their child
Through teachings and persuasions on the world?
Or are their efforts cast aside in vain
And like a branch whose purpose is support,
Their leaf sprouts colour of its own accord?
I do recall when all those darling thoughts
Would stay content within their budding realm
And keep away from nearing the dread edge
As beasts soon learn to shun the hunter’s den;
But now they are inured to its cold call,
And walk its contour with a silent step
Away from verdure and untroubled days
But also with a sense of earned pride.
And as those children learnt to brave the void
I noticed a strange change in their stretched path
For now they seem to pace along a slope,
Which rises gently next to the steep dive.
I think I know where that direction leads:
An awesome mountain full of winsome groves,
Where lulling music rides the bracing air
And golden fountains spur the eye’s delight
And muses cause one’s sense of joy to surge
And children try each pigment of the earth
And cherish tastes that elsewhere cause them grief.
I know that mountains own a massive base
And that ascent is not reserved to sides
But I cannot conceive of other ways
And my approach remains true to this lip.
Some say that poets learn to sing one song,
That writers tell one story in their lives,
And so I’m sure to walk this arid trail
And leave some green behind for more ahead.
I wonder what the end will hold for me
Indeed, the mountain’s base is not yet seen
But as my thoughts roam near the tall abyss
I cannot help but think: is there a gate?
Will my ascent by others’ fence be barred?
Will people place a log across the path
And lift it if their children love my own?
What if their children learnt to fear the edge
And now do all its travellers abhor?
Perhaps they spy upon me from afar
And hide within the shelter of the woods,
And then the mountain spies upon them too
And judges from the visage of their face
To show or hide the route that threads the maze.
I do not claim to know what my fate holds,
What lot cruel Atropos has kept in stock.
I focus on my footing on the track
But as I do so one more child is born
And bears with it a new intriguing thought:
Should mount Parnassus yield to my attack
And let me reach its oh so lofty peak
Would I not then by void become engulfed
And face an edge whichever way I turn?