Bamboo Shoot
Personal
Don’t most of us, at some point in our lives, find ourselves forearm-deep in washing-up water, staring out of the window at our career through that chaotic proliferation of choice that may or may not constitute free will? Yet even if we could retrace our steps, thinking to alter the pattern of some decisive play; prepared to cross a bit of rough ground to get back on the right track, where would we go back to? The view refracted by time, the cards forced on us earlier than we think - could we know any more about what came before than we can know now what comes next; would our new choice be any less a gamble?
Low tide, unprinted sand.
I walk to the spur of rocks ...
Do my feet turn out?
...... lost in the haze of distance,
my path ... anything but straight.
Page(s) 50
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