This is the Way Up An old man walks over rolling European hills He gains each crest and spies the next. Each step a link in the golden chain, An arrow drawn upon the mental map. Climbing in poor visibility, lungs pumping, Nothing past the looming peak. Only picture memory shows the peaks behind him, Snapshots in the brain. So much of youth spent in the valleys Where fog mercifully lingers. So momentary were those heart lost tops, Lost in regret and thoughts of swampy ground. One foot, and then, the other. This is the way up To the heights the heart remembers, Straining in the best way, yearning For some golden sunrise, mountain vista. Where we might see the far-off ranges, And photographic memory bring, Into fleeting focus from the journey Both top and bottom, rose and thorn. I wandered lonely as a cloud Is more than Wordsworth. An ambition for old-age and for youth: To tread the golden path, among the peaks.
This is Niall trying to make a poem. This is how my heart works.
Let me know what you think.
~Niall
Thank you for the restack!