Each of us has travelled our own thirsty roads
to arrive, spray-faced, in our own seaside town
and walked our own historical lanes
in search of where we’ve been
so that we might know where we are going.
Can it be that the point of the journey
is the journey itself
and that our gravest danger
is arriving at each town
clinging to our memories of the last one?
At the breakwater of our learning,
we risk piling rock upon rock of yesterday,
building marinas of the mind
only to wake, breached,
by the tidal wave of tomorrow.
Let journeys bring us to the destinations they will
and let the waves deliver the tide unguarded
and we may yet see the purpose
of a pointless compass
in an ever-changing sea.
Six Crooked Highways 
A wonderful poem, Doug. I really like, and relate to, the last stanza.
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Many thanks, Roberta.
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This is so well written. Wonderful poetry that drew me in all the way through. A wonderful ending that was a new beginning. Well done sir!
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Thank you, Walt, much appreciated, especially from a fellow ‘traveller’. I visited your wonderful State some years ago and enjoyed it immensely.
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My pleasure Doug. Hope you enjoyed your visit!
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