Travel Asks Me

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams

Hurry too rapidly down to the sea,

And the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops

Makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,

Turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.

- for if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, terstrians,

Aren't waterfalls yet,

In a quick age or so, as ages go here,

They probably will be.

But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,

The mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,

Slime-hung and barnacled.

Think of the long trip home.

Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?

Where should we be today?

Is it right to be watching strangers in a play

In this strangest of theatres?

What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life

In our bodies, we are determined to rush

To see the sun the other way around?

The tiniest green hummingbird in the World?

To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,

Inexplicable and impenetrable,

At any view,

Instantly seen and always, always delightful?

Oh, must we dream our dreams

And have them, too?

And have we room

For one more folded sunset, still quite warm?