All That Can Be Seen
I can see all that can be seen; yet I feel blind.
I know there is more there, hidden from my eyes.
Or, perhaps, it is a trick of the memory.
In younger days, in lonesome places,
I stared up and saw the dust.
The old bridge of the dead stood proud.
Too many folk who fear the dark,
Or vendors who show their wares,
Stand between me and my childhood smallness.