The Path: A Photograph Poem by Frank Avon

Along the path
of a ten-day pilgrimage,
the way is strewn
with sunken stones;

on either side
the fences are
twisted, crumbling,
overgrown with sedge;

overhead
straggly trees
form a canopy,
intermittently;

far ahead
and all around
into the distance,
mists beckon.

* * * * *

And I am transported,
I'm ten again,
walking the ridge
to the west of our farm,

on an abandoned road,
untraveled
for years and years,
but still there.

I imagine myself
ageless in the mist,
and once again,
in this mist,
I am ageless still.