Notes on Not Getting Lost
During (and despite) the manured farmyard
of my dragging up, the tumble and rough and tough
of the cold and silly years, frictions, unconscious
re-enactings, dark dramas, conflagrations,
the forest of spears
there was a rope, thick, seaworthy,
wound, bound, twined, secure, fitted my hand,
beautiful, always there, it was her.
I held it, this rope, our gold line, throughout,
followed it, still do.
My dog followed me, cold nosed my leg.
This is the way, my way, this way.
This is what I want.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Rose Cook would be
pleased to hear them.