Going away is a destination.
What follows, flows. Train
or tram, flight path, cart road.
A spill of brick. A soft shoe. Go.
Gone away is the place to be.
Going away from, leaving to. Field
and fell, walking the hill. Whether
to go around or over. Weather
always goes away in time, but better
you outrun cloudburst, the scatter
of water, find the seam where rain
stops. Take yourself across the line.
Train your eye to notice edges.
Then go after them. Hedge, ledge,
or legerdemain. A ring
has an edge, enraptured at the brink
of what’s been circled. But not
for you this ringing round. Pot
and hearth hearken to hot hearts;
yours, chest-cradled, starts
when you start. GONE AWAY
is the name the signs display
at all the stations, each cross
roads. Going west. Going east. Just
go. For every journey’s one
way. For any mapline’s drawn
and done once found. Coming back’s
no voyage: Movement. Act.