The Territories

(for those in the margins)

He often travelled

to the territories,

wandering for days

through landscapes of shifting sand

that seemed to recognise him.

As a boy

he learnt early

how to read the winds,

the shapes they carve

in the rock formations.

He knew where to find tracks,

how to listen to their hesitant steps

as they traced the way.

And when form lost feature

and the horizon thinned to blue,

he would place a stone

to mark his path,

each one listening

for the next whisper

the distance hinted

but never named.

At night,

as the sky would lose its way

and the ground offered little certainty,

the stars became his compass —

a scattered map

only he could read.

For a long time,

he would return.

With a cup of tea,

he would sit

in his wooden chair,

a glint in his eye,

present

but wondering still.

He loved our stories,

leaning in to listen,

curious, laughing—

a pause

before the territories

called him back.

At times

he would return early,

before we woke.

I could hear the radio

playing softly

down in the kitchen,

sand on the stairs,

the warmth of morning

gathering around him.

We knew

his stories

would follow.

Once, he told me

if you wander deeper

two ravens

begin to follow.

One dark,

one pale.

“Do not fear for

the day raven,”

he whispered.

“For he stays close,

drawn to the warmth

of gathered voices.

He always circles back

to share

the soft hush

of familiar things.”

“But the far one,

the pale raven—

she follows

older winds.

Hold her softly,

for if she fades,

names will thin,

not break,

just drift.”

Now, as I travel

these shifting lands,

sometimes

shapes loosen,

and the sands lift to mist,

and landmarks fade.

A stone

waits in the hush.

I pause,

listen,

the old way.

Other times,

in between moments,

you meet a fellow wanderer.

Rarely in the territories, though.

You recognise them

by the way they pause,

the glint in their eye,

the way they lean in

to listen beyond hearing’s edge.

Now,

as I move deeper

to where the winds shift

and the horizon thins,

I feel him near—

not beside me,

but ahead,

somewhere in the pale distance

where his raven flies.

He walks there still.

And so I move,

as he once did,

through drift and silence.

The sands change,

the mist rises,

the names soften.

But the way

continues,

and somewhere

beyond my steps,

a new listening

begins.