The map of the roads through my life

by Jim Miller

Rodrigo Bermejo, one of Columbus’s crew, is held to be 
the first man to spy land in the famous voyage in 1492. 

I’ve forgotten the first road
and a good few that followed;
they are marked on lost maps
in other minds.

Only the odd corner was flashed
before my eyes, and hangs on still
to the edge of memory’s shelf,
treasured,

taken down, turned over from time to time,
wiped clean of dust, put back,
fragments of experience,
heirlooms.

Less distant roads are clearer.
They jump and dodge in sharper colours,
but despite the curves they end together,
where I am now.

I think of Rodrigo Bermejo,
cursing his captain in the moment 
before he saw that horizon,
glinting in moonlight.

Was he falling into sleep 
and welcome dreams of orange groves?
Anything better than this staring
at a heaving waste.

I imagine the shout, the rushing feet,
the end of the dread of falling 
over the edge of the world.
The edge of the map.

It’s not the fear of falling off 
that troubles me. I live at the edge
but the edge keeps ebbing
as I come near. 

Rodrigo came home with fame,
to the promise of a pension
he didn’t get, and to his fate –
to be forgotten.

With a compass and a fair wind,
oceans can be crossed both ways,
the ship backtracking, smelling
its own wake,

and in the tack and gybe
a new course can be set,
a fresh try made to find
more new worlds