the deserter

these hills know the truth,

their weathered faces

display scars of jagged rock:

I will find no peace here.

my exploration is not adventure;

rootless wanderlust is for children.

I struggle onwards with my grappling hook,

a painful endeavour to find something firm.

my friends are scattered to the winds,

content in fully–formed worlds of their own -

where their presence matters,

where they would be missed.

people shrink from me as a dog from death.

my fate is to keep searching.

there have been worse fates.

but relentlessness can atrophy a mind

and time only serves to agitate

the shrapnel of a leftover life.

I fight under black muslin -

I crawl through deepest fog,

clutching a rusty hook and

a dream I can’t even remember.