My Inner Inukshuk

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Towards the rising sun, I turn 

my morning face, ever hopeful.

Vision obscured, I peer through cloudy glass,

towards the brighter sky.

Beyond the meadow, I can see 

the ghostly shapes of ancient horses,

shape-shifting among the trees.

The shaman sits on a fencepost,

smiling, wise and kind,

with an owl perched on his shoulder.

He will not point the way,

for I must find it for myself.

But he gives me a blessing

for the journey,

as the road is steep,

rock-strewn,

and he knows there will be storms.

To the south lies treasure, precious stone,

inukshuks to point the way

for lonely travelers.

Their arms point west, always west,

where my spirit flies, up over the mountains,

along the familiar highway

that leads me forever home.

A row of prisms cast rainbows, for beauty,

refract the light, for brightness

and clear-seeing.

Towards sunset lies the illumined path,

following footsteps I trod before,

called ever forward 

by the unceasing song of the sea,

siren, lover, clarion call,

to fly my spirit home.

I heft my kit bag full of memories,

tuck in a soupcon of wonder,

and a song to merry me along,

towards my nest at the edge of the world.

North is an inner compass, a knowing that,

whatever direction I am headed, 

however long or short the journey,

I am my own

True North. 

This poem arrived in 2015, when I lived at the farm. It was created thanks to an exercise by Elizabeth, to turn in all the directions, make notes on what I saw and turn it into a poem. Thanks, Elizabeth!

Sharing it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United this Sunday.