Which Way Do I Go? Poem by Mark Heathcote

A wooded path is like a river
weaving it natural course downstream
it's like a dream winding and turning,
twisting from high to low.
It's as if your heart were on a swing bridge
when the evening light dims in its glow,
and every fork in the road
is a pause for some hidden dilemma?
Which way do I go?
If only I could turn back and pretend
I'm still on track, pretend
that forward movement doesn't matter.
Pretend that these old pastures
are still good fodder
and staying-put is well much, much better.