On my trip last week to New South Wales I sat by a river in a place called Morton Boulka and wrote this poem.
Here on the river
watching the sun sink through cloud
wrens, dancing in the scrub
I think of what it is to be an explorer
To adventure, boldly, to stride
over distance and discomfort
to drink life in.
I think on being a wanderer, less bold
more drifting with tides
washing onto shore unplanned
watching the world through eyes
open to joy.
And I think then of that other, inner realm
the place I go when my body is broken
or life is cruel and the traps about me binding –
The long walk down the hallway of my home
at night, the television hushed
the empty bed waiting
and the darkness all around me
The pathway before me slanting down
to my mind’s underworld.
I’ve been all these, in time
The brave explorer, the wanderer, the traveler of inner worlds
each to their seasons
the needs remain the same:
good company is appreciated,
a meal to share,
and a path home.
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