Markings
What markings, then, on the path have I left?
What inkling prints or spoor displayed
for others to follow – that tireless rabble
of curious scientists, disciples,
and ankle-sniffing catchers of prey, adopting
those difficult ways and defiles I have trod.
I wish and need to know and so, retreating
from the storm-lashed summit I almost reached,
through filth and floods obscuring tracks,
I find one such and bind and shake him
till his teeth rattle, demanding, who are you?
I am you, says he.
I am the one you dropped, my friend,
as excess baggage long ago. And the others?
Stopping also, they have strayed to fresh obsessions.
It is only you and me remaining.
Return and hold to your ascension
and I shall write about your subtle signs.
Clive Donovan is the author of two poetry collections, The Taste of Glass [Cinnamon Press 2021] and Wound Up With Love [Lapwing 2022] and is published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Amethyst Review, Crannog, Popshot, Prole and Stand. He lives in Totnes, Devon, UK. He was a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee for 2022’s best individual poems.
defiles, n. a steep-sided narrow gorge or passage
Amethyst Review 