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.
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,
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