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Doretta Lowe

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We are what we are because of what we have been. The scars and the the victories are all the same - and there is neither triumph nor defeat… Only what is

I thought of this poem sat in my lounge, one of my father’s paintings on the wall. It’s an oil painting completed in the late 1970’s showing me as an 11 year old child walking up a narrow country lane near our home.



An old, forgotten road.
A memory of schoolboy days, rough paths
of my old town, an etched valley side,
a pattern of my past.

They warned me, in those days,
who felt they knew my life better than I,
of newer roads they feared, but never trod –
and yet I knew no less.

The old, forgotten road
leads through many places to my present.
The memories are etched, not on my mind,
but that of which I am.

There is no former self.
I do not know what mind has thought of me,
though this is but one dream, and I am one.
Sadness is not regret.

Whenever tomorrow
has finally emerged from mystery,
its pristine hopes will leave their prints upon
the same, forgotten road.

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