Across the meadow, down the hillside,
Over the mountain broad and strong,
I traveled with an iron will
Through weather bad and distance long
To find the wishing road.

Through tear of bramble, heat of day,
I fought through fatigue my weary way,
For just where it lay I could not guess:
It isn’t on any G.P.S.,
And doesn’t have a post code.

One day, in a river, cool and clear,
I saw that I’d aged; my face had changed –
The way might be far or yet be near,
Still life had been pre- or re-arranged
And now I was grey, and bowed.

It’s funny how far we have to go
To find what we all already know —
Though rivers grow full of our freshest tears,
All wishing is work, and it eats up years,
‘Til we find our steps have slowed —

There’s hardly an hour goes by these days
That I don’t think about all the steps I took
In search of short cut to who-knows-where
Via mountain – or maybe a hardback book –

But wherever I am
Is from where I must start;
I must work hands and feet
But then wish with my heart –
‘Till at last, with that one final wish
I’m bestowed,
On the path of life, not
The wishing
Road