POEMS/
No Marked Path
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No Marked Path
My true self, my aimless wanderer -Norman MacCaig I take my mother’s strong hand on the stony beach between Crovie and Gamrie, and lead her between rocks and wobbly stones, a way least hazardous, where she can follow my foot- steps as I once followed hers, where, hand in hand, we collected wee cowrie shells she kept in matchboxes and I found pretty red-white spotted top shells I loved to death. Here, where I first became sure-footed—running leaping laughing over rocks, a girl- goat—now I scan the mix of stone, rock and broken shell for pottery shards, edges softened from years of tidal tumbling, not searching for anything particular, not on any marked path, but knowing the shards that are mine to pocket, minding in hand and foot and eye and heart the trust in my true self— my mother’s gift. |