It is not my childhood I search for
in these woods, for even in my childhood
I was lost – always on the right path,
No, it is something else, something
in these woods, that my ancestors,
in their haste to leave,
left behind for me to lose.
So here I am, searching,
the walker in the woods on a Bank Holiday,
bearing the map of a child’s exploring,
home again, but lost.