We've surely trodden
all the directions
around our house -
methodically, at times,
drunkenly, at others.
We're Minotaurs,
trapped inside.
Hooves poised,
compass needle
wavering under our
magnetic indecision.
Our walks along
the railway cutting -
a city's scar, threaded
under bridges, over bridges -
an old straight track or
urban ley line, perhaps -
is the only place
we briefly, freely,
realise how trapped
we are in this labyrinth.
I remember, as a child,
stepping off the tube
in a new station and realising,
with utter indignation,
that left and right had
cheated me.
Every city, its corners
pinned down by maps,
keeps turning if you
stand still - there is
no easier way to be lost.