PATHS

We see things all the time that make no sense.  Things that set us wondering how they exist  at all and this poem was made after I saw one such thing.  We were walking up a very, very small mountain and I was wandering along one of its paths, when I saw this one particular path. I followed it and found that it led to the very edge of a high point.  Below, rocks were tumbling down a steep and dangerous slope.  Why did the path exist?  I stood there with a thousand questions, questions there was no answer to, as there never is when we see something that doesn’t make sense.  The only thing to do then, is to write a poem.

                               PATHS

There are paths all over this mountain.
They run through rock
And over grass,
As if a thousand feet
Had worn them into the ground.

Some paths go on for ever,
Winding up and down
Until we can no longer see them.
Others run a little way,
Then stop.

We walk up and down these paths,
Wondering who made them.

Especially do we wonder who made the one
That runs straight off the edge of the rock.

                                         © Gwen Grant