Mine

When I see images of moorland or fells,
I say to myself,
‘yes that particular moor is mine,
that mountain is my mountain.’
Then when I see people walking on
a moor path that I used to walk on
or climbing familiar mountains
that I once climbed
I often wonder what I left there,
that still makes them mine.
When Ohio knocks on my door
and rattles my windows;
I say to myself
‘that is my door and my window,’
yet I puzzle over
what I will leave here
when my boots have walked
every inch of this little patch
of suburbia, and if those shoe prints
on wet paving’s will ever be
recognized as me or mine?

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