The path meanders through the night.
The trees on every side all tower
to a moon-obscuring height,
bamboozling with their outstretched power.
No destination is in sight,
no flickering of a promised land,
and no-one’s here to flash some light
when all I need’s a helping hand.
The path meanders as I toil
deep through the wood, where canker mangles
every trunk into a boil
and, pointing in unnatural angles,
branches warp and twist and coil.
They’re sapped of life, sucked dry as sand
as mistletoe-clumps reap their spoils.
I’m lost and need a helping hand.
The path meanders. By degrees,
it disappears without a trace
as branches, flaking with disease,
sink down and smack me in the face.
The roots of these vindictive trees
jump out and trip me. I can’t stand.
For miles and miles I’m on my knees.
Still no-one comes to lend a hand.
The sun slides up. A cockerel crows.
In front of me there rolls a field
and then, a village packed with rows
of chimneys, where fresh meat is wheeled
across a square where pleasure flows
in language I don’t understand.
Could this be where my passion grows,
where somebody will lend a hand?
