Am I old? Am I new?
What can be said of my verse
of fallen pine needles, pine trees
glazed with honey,
of my rock with its brown music
of melted toffee?
Is my wind old? Is it new?
No matter. It can lead you
to a realm where the child remains a child,
a realm where Adam or Eve still walks naked, pure.
You climb, you climb,
climbing - as you shed yourself,
and you view the peaks,
yourself and peaks
lost in a trance of summer blue.
What are you? Where are you?
No matter. There's just the majesty
neither old nor new -
a majesty that will outlive
innovations and mere novelty.
A slight, but notable revision: originally, line 11 read, "You climb me, you climb me", which is rather unpleasant and jarring on the ears. It sounds like a little child wanting attention. The "me" has been dropped, which is nice, also, because the "climb/time"- rhyme is captured.