A MAZE
The charm of a maze
Depends on the fear
Of getting lost.
You turn and turn
As the lengths of path
Fill up with shadow
And panic mounts.
If you reach the centre
There's nothing there
Of any importance-
Maybe a statue
Or garden bench
And the satisfaction
Of crossword solving.
You have got to "there"
When "there" is only
A shape of sodden
Seedy grass,
Out of sorts,
Its meaning wholly
Contained in the pattern
You've traced to find it.
This is an image
For metaphysics
Or any kind
Of system building.
Nothing is nothing
However you dress it.
Yeats at the end
Of his life acknowledged
There's only the heart.
Our loves, our hates
Generate patterns;
The mind pursues them,
Thinking it has
An object and
Ariadne's counsel.
There's nothing there.
Now I have spent
A half a lifetime
Fussing with questions
I'll never answer.
Time to call quits.
I am ready at last
To ask of life
No more that simple
Human friendships,
Human loves,
And like Candide
To work the garden.
