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?