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The Old Ways



I step through wooden house
to revisit that which has escaped me
in times I once thought
would never come.


I sit on leather armchair
dozing by the fire
which, though I sparked with flint
and the knife my grandfather gave me,
burns bright on a copy of yesterday's news.

It would seem, as I watch it, wild orange in perfect black,
that which my ancestors had conquered,
stolen from the electric sky,
has finally conquered me.


I sleep on cotton bed
under the rough wool my mother
tamed for my crying brother
from the same ram that mocked him.


And in my dreams, I too stand tall
high on rocky crag and cairn
looking out into the fog
of the ever coming morning.


And it is there,
to the old ways,
which I shall return.

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