Between the path that whispers only my name
and the paths thick with other footfalls moving—
family, neighbour, community, the unborn and the dead—
the self thins to vapour, flowing wholly outward,
or hardens into a private statue, held too close, not moving.

But where these paths meet, a clearing opens:
filled with small habitable joys bound together
from refusal and yes: the I unmaking
into we, the we loosening back into I,
and in that moving-between, the always arriving.

 

17/5/2026