This was a road; an old map told me so.
A trail, I’d say, and sometimes less than that.
It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.

It started as an even bed of chat.
A mile beyond the gate, it turned to clay,
And here the leaves have not been trampled flat.

I look between the trees to guess my way:
Among the oaks, a space one wagon wide.
Who drove here? Are their sons alive today?

And can I rightly say the old map lied?
The future’s not what maps are made to show.
Life’s like this road—it cannot be denied:

The way’s less clear the further in you go.
It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.