The Departure of the Prodigal Son

At last to leave behind all that confusion:

the things of ours that never quite belonged

although, like water in a well, they served

to reflect ourselves (it trembled: we were gone);

to shed what still attempts to cling

as if attached by thorns - and suddenly

to see in close-up, every detail clear,

people and things impossible to see

(familiar and banal and always there)

and find them tender and conciliatory;

at last to comprehend old injuries

and realise how disproportionate

our childhood's overwhelming sense of hurt

had been; in spite of all to leave, to tear

our hands away as if to tear a scar

already healed, and to depart: but where?

Into uncertainty, looking to find

some distant, unfamiliar, temperate land

to be the setting that our actions need

(the courtyard, or the garden, as required);

to take our leave: but why? Because we're driven;

because of what we are, our dispositions;

because of urgent premonitions;

because of darkness and our lack of vision:

To make this whole attempt; perhaps in vain

of what we hold; perhaps to die

uncomprehendingly, perhaps alone

How else can we discover a new life?