Now to Our Own
We start with feet riding on a rubber floor,
a moving carriage, scuffed by thousands of shoes,
our reflections caught for a second in the glass.
A middle-aged man stares at us, then sinks again
as the train descends into the central tunnel;
brushed steel and huddled shoulders
carry us now unmasked—
We ascend towards the pale light,
the towering Gothic stonework lifting us onto Marienplatz
alongside an elderly man holding a plastic shopping bag.
We pause along a narrow street, acknowledge the cream,
the beige and light grey decorated façades,
the darker window frames,
seeking a handle to belong—
At Ammersee we breathe beneath the widening sky,
the lake receiving what the afternoon
has left of light.
She speaks among the others,
their voices passing easily from one to another,
while I watch the slow procession of the clouds,
the small movements of her face,
searching for the spark that lights her eyes.
The woods of Andechs receive us without question,
their roots laid deep beneath the years,
their branches bending towards the path.
What do these trees remember
of all who passed beneath them,
of those who climbed with hope,
and those who carried sorrow?
And at the hilltop, around a table,
we break our bread, pass plates,
and lift our glasses in the afternoon.
Hands reach across the circle,
a little laughter moves between us,
and nothing needs explaining.
If only my children might unfold
their wings and fly to us,
to breathe this air, to sit among us,
to know the quiet fullness
of a table where no place is strange.
In Aufham, the countryside rests
beneath the shelter of the hills,
and Bavarian children, their laughter
spilling across the morning,
come near and melt our hearts,
their little lives already rooted
where we have only just arrived.
Salzburg receives us in the rain,
its ancient stones and narrow streets
shining beneath a darkened sky.
And later, in the warmth of evening,
a room aglow with familiar faces,
voices gathering around the table,
the day's small stories passing hand to hand.
Somewhere among these houses,
these hills, these open doors,
a garden grows without our tending.
We turn towards Innsbruck,
where the mountains rise before us,
the great stone threshold of the Alps,
their summits holding what we cannot know.
Here is the country of our comfort,
the valleys, woods, the changing light,
the heights to which our eyes return
as though they knew us.
But who can tell what years will bring,
what roads will open, which will close,
what time will leave us of its gifts?
If only, when the seasons turn,
and all the distant roads are travelled,
we may still find ourselves
beneath one sky,
together—
Munich, Bavaria and the Alps — October 2026