Maps: a poem

Maps

Although, they are useful sources
Of information we cannot do without,
Regular maps have few surprises, their contour lines
Reveal where the Andes are, and are reasonably clear
On the location of Australia, and the Outer Hebrides and Sligo;
Such maps are abound, more precious, though,
Are the unpublished maps we make ourselves,
Of our city, our place, our daily world, our life;
Those maps of our private world
We use every day; here I was happy, in that place
I left my coat after a party,
That is where I met my love, I cried there once,
I was heartsore; but felt better round the corner
Once I saw the Lough Gill across the Forth,
Things of that sort, our personal memories,
That make the private tapestry of our lives.
Old maps had personified winds,
Gusty figures from whose bulging cheeks
Trade winds would blow; now we know
That wind is simply a matter of isobars;
Science has made such things mundane,
But love- that, at least, remains a mystery,
Why it is, and how it comes about
That love’s transforming breath, that gentle wind,
Should blow its healing way across our lives.


--Alexander McCall Smith