It all began with an old hut and a compass. Or rather, that's where you came in. The kettle hums, the fire burns bright; The rain has washed the tracks away. That compass hadn't stirred all night — Until you came to call today. I've steered through squalls upon the sea, And crossed high passes white with snow; The finest charts have baffled me — There's always more than maps can show. I've tended wounds by lantern light, And learnt what woodland herbs can do; I've read through many a sleepless night, And found how much I never knew. Now hold that compass, if you please; It never stirs for idle talk. It knows the paths beyond the seas, But cannot choose the road you walk. The world is wider than we're told, And stranger than the maps we draw; No chest of silver, crown of gold Could hold the wonders that he saw. My shelves hold notes on birds and trees, On distant stars and ancient stone; And half a dozen curious keys To doors I'd rather leave alone. I've made mistakes, as travellers do, And kept the worst ones neatly filed; I may have learnt a thing or two, But I'm as curious as a child. These maps can show where rivers bend, And how to reach a distant shore; But where a journey ought to end Is something maps were never for. The world is wider than we're told, And stranger than the maps we draw; No chest of silver, crown of gold Could hold the wonders that he saw. Some secrets sleep in weathered books, Some lie beyond a distant shore; He catches all our eager looks And smiles: "There's always room for more." Not every choice I made was wise, And some I wish I could undo; But when I see your curious eyes, The world feels wide and strange and new. Now watch the compass turn and gleam, Its needle catching firelight; The walls give way to shore and stream, And every star comes into sight. Ah. There it is. The world is wider than we're told, And stranger than the maps we draw; No chest of silver, crown of gold Could hold the wonders that he saw. The compass holds a thread of light, The shadows sweep across the floor; Three friends lean closer in the night — And one small voice says, "Tell us more." The fire burns low. The road does not. VK: https://vk.com/luckyandco Telegram: https://t.me/LuckyAndCo FB: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61594515857834 https://www.litres.ru/author/ellen-adler-34039054/
