In the tumble folds of Galloway,
Squeezed between gently swelling knapps,
There is a south-sea map macrame,
A metalled filigree macadam of
Older paths and tangled routes.
They call it the Hidden Road, as if
Only seen at certain times by uncertain eyes.
A journey always almost just at hand.
Opportunity’s unfought opening line,
Fence it too hard, and it will fly away.
But neither hesitate nor take too long,
Wrapped in tomorrow’s anticipation,
Massing forward, speedily squaring inverse time,
Momentum quickly, quickly paving away
Peripheral vision’s barely glimps’d paths of desire.
No. Hurry, hurry again down the highway,
Prepare to go back, to return to work.
Too soon, too late: unmade, unmapped.
Was that a sign? Where was the way?
Did I? Did you? Are we? Are we past our turn?
Or stop. Right now.
And, in stopping, stumble,
To this sudden hidden step.
And, in unexpected stillness,
Move another way.