I take the shoots of river willow,
supple, fashioned circle-wise
and fastened so. There is a code
of charms upon the Silken Road.
They say there is a queen, her crown
a nesting-place for each cocoon:
on hatching, teams of busy worms
spin out, spin out the Silken Road.
To reach the journey’s origin
brings riches … By this legend struck
so many homes stand empty. Miles
are posted on the Silken Road
by bones, some spread, some figuring
their common frames. That’s animal,
that’s other. All my brothers left
provisioned for the Silken Road,
and as I walk I scan the ground
for charcoal, tent-pegs, human tracks.
The light arches at my back
as night falls on the Silken Road.
My dream is short: a river lined
with willow, on its banks a queen
worm-eaten. There’s myself grown old,
at home upon the Silken Road.