Poem: Getting there

Sometimes when I get there it’s as if there’s not where I want to be at all, despite the signs along the way convincing me of the destination – sunlight illuminating a patch of lichen on a roadside rock, a man in a hat who looks a little bit like my father.

But then I realise I am no longer there, but here, and all those signs were not signs at all but celebrations of the passing here. That all points of departure and arrival and every step of the journey are all here. Now. Here, I am. And again, I am here.