A bumpy road to navigate,
to let your feelings trace the route,
the pauses, stops, then off again,
along the lines you’ve gone before.
You’ve learnt to read the signs laid out,
like giant atlas on the lap,
when others have an A to Z,
and flick through pages casually
whenever they think that they’re lost.
At least you can read in the dark,
not with a torch and one ear cocked,
but like detective, scene of crime –
it’s yours to find, finger-tip search.
Unlike parades through ticker-tape,
election booths with hanging chads,
or punching tickets in the face,
you have impressionistic art
within your hands.
A treasure trove.