I met a man
along the road
who thought he knew
which way to go.
Certain was he;
he knew the path.
He had a map.
He’d done the math.
“Your map won’t help
you now, I fear.
Past the map’s edge
the world turns queer.”
“I’ll find my way,
be sure of that,”
the man dismissed
with words he spat.
When I returned,
an hour ago,
I passed a car-
cass in the snow.
No doubt, twas he,
the certain man–
hit a blizzard
in burning sands.
By B Gourley in Hiking, People, poem, Poetry, travel, Walking, Wilderness, wisdom on August 21, 2016.
