You go up the long track <br />That will take a car, but is best walked <br />On slow foot, noting the lichen <br />That writes history on the page <br />Of the grey rock. Trees are about you <br />At first, but yield to the green bracken, <br />The nightjars house: you can hear it spin <br />On warm evenings; it is still now <br />In the noonday heat, only the lesser <br />Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat <br />And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs, <br />You will pause for breath and the far sea's <br />Signal will flash, till you turn again <br />To the steep track, buttressed with cloud. <br /> <br />And there at the top that old woman, <br />Born almost a century back <br />In that stone farm, awaits your coming; <br />Waits for the news of the lost village <br />She thinks she knows, a place that exists <br />In her memory only. <br /> You bring her greeting <br />And praise for having lasted so long <br />With time's knife shaving the bone. <br />Yet no bridge joins her own <br />World with yours, all you can do <br />Is lean kindly across the abyss <br />To hear words that were once wise. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Ronald Stuart Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ninetieth-birthday/
