I wrote this poem as a response to studying Frosts’ The Road Not Taken back in, I think, the end of 2006. It’s held up well, I think.
Two roads diverge in a yellow wood, a crossroads
-(Where’s the train?)-
in the middle of the yellow tangle.
And you, seeing the crowds of millions, take the
left one, the one, you say,
-(People? What people?)-
with the better claim.
And I see you disappear in to the crowd and
turn to face the other.
Up ahead there is a boy, can’t be more than five or six,
-(Mum? Mum? Mum?)-
forgiveness? He screams and screams, and I know that I must do something,
must do all I can.
And so I run, follow, determined to reach him.
But I hit a wall.
No matter, I sense
that everything will be alright. In this patch of
green, in this tangle of wood, in this part of the world,
everything will be alright.
And now, here I am, sitting, staring,
took the road less travelled, and
my friend, has made all the difference.