All afternoon I climbed, a slow labourious march,
through autumn woods stripped bare of leaves.
Long since my two companions strode ahead,
and now new hikers pass me by who joke and laugh
and disappear from view.
From high upon the hill, I sit upoin a rock
and rest my aching feed. And aching heart. And watch.
A winter sun stares back at me through leaden clouds –
its milky eye so dull, devoid of natural warmth –
and far below the river shines, a strand of silver,
against the grave, dark, hills.
I have struggled to reach this height. Yet my aged
parents cannot even reach the garden gate.
I am exiled far from home. And best beloved
friends are gone whome I shall never see again.
Summer has passed… I have seen too many winters.
No spring can come that finds me here again,
high upon a hill,
which boyish legs once scampered up with ease.