Posted for the Theme Thursday prompt - MAP


MAPS


Years later, maybe, you'll come upon old maps
boxed with your youth and dusted with misgivings.
And perhaps  they'd crackle if unfolded, 
as the first frosts hard on the heels of autumn crisp the leaves.
Beware! They lure like carillons wrenching you
back over moorlands where the curlew grieves.


Leave maps as metaphors you tramped among . .
A boot-cap scuffles and chunks of rock dislodged
whirr down to silence, falling far too long . .
memorials of hushed October glens
where voices drift miles and the ice-axe chink
lies like a bell note on the misting air.


Sip your memories in the firelight, but . .
let your maps be, or your finger
tracing paths once taken, could lead you
to years that rise like runs of scree,
and browsing through your autumn days, unfold
times creased with use and truths that dropped apart.
For those far, remembered hills could clasp love-close
dried blades of grass that pierce you to the heart.