I'm going to walk with the Ramblers, traverse
footpaths inked onto Ordnance Survey maps
by unknown cartographers. From the terse
calligraphy of contour lines perhaps
I'll glean a sense of recognition, feel
that here, beneath my walking boots, at last,
this heather, peat and granite—all is real,
my future thus connected to the past.
I've planned four walks, and all to parts unknown
except for the last that ends in Dunbar
where I've been before, teenaged and alone,
and watched the night fishing fleet from afar,
bright lights strung from the masts—forming a great
constellation by which to navigate.
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