Journey

You called me Marco Polo, and I laughed.
I didn't know where I was going.
I hadn't got a map, just the first draft
of a poem. You were in it, knowing
nothing of the bridge that had to be crossed.
Or maybe you did. It's hard to be sure.
One or other of us - or both - was lost
though it seemed to make sense. Not any more.
That's the way it goes. You can't always see
how the path dwindles where the journey ends
though you think you can. Listen to me:
not the end of the world. What goes around
comes around. It was never meant to be.
The road to hell is paved with clichés, friend.

Helena Nelson

If you would like to comment on this poem Helena Nelson would like to hear from you: HE11@beatonh.freeserve.uk