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Worn Passport


This passport is too full, its pages

Stamped in diverse shapes and colours

Testament of frontiers, unbridled 

Wanderlust, philanderings, ups and downs, 

Places to stop, to stay, memories

Arrayed, displayed, sorted, washed

Airing like clothes on the line.


Too full to measure now 

the depth of life’s surprises

that the sun lies in the north, 

when first you lie in the south;

How the moon looks different when 

sunrise strikes, alarms its other side

The light waves long and stretched 

through morning air strike blue 

On ships turning their faces 

to the harbour in some protest

Against the pull and tug of ebbing tide.


This passport is too short for all ambition

To hear again the rhino’s puffing breath 

To walk the grandeur of Elysian Fields

See the mountain kingdoms crest

Above Kathmandu’s exotic colour

Feel the bucolic quiet of Castle Coombe

Glory in Tuscany’s soft light

Saturna’s sunsets exquisitely

Exclaim a perfect day. 

To rest once more in Carib warmth

Know faith in waiting for the leopard.


This passport is too old to hold me

Buoyant in the river sweeping

Through some human confluence

Under a summer midday storm

Releasing a flash flood of worried faces

Stressful glances at the clock

Dammed by all the drift, detritus

Of wondering people lost along the way.


Happier to decline, dismiss the names

Once thrilling, evoking adventure, discovery

The big board more burden than blessing

Now, home is where you live.

 © Philip Knight 2018