She stops; this woman, and looks around.
This point, this now, this girl, who’s she? Is she really where she was meant to be?

Never her aim, this winding path, with hills to climb and stones so sharp.
Sometimes she reaches back through dreams, to a place where hopes trump might-have-beens, and a mellow yearning burns awhile, as futile as her tears.

For the past is there and set in stone, the truths of it granite, the dice long thrown.
She knows, this woman, grief plays a part, a gentled pain now faint of spark, long tucked inside a darkling heart.

A different turn, a change in speed, a lighter wind, a stronger steed?
There were gentler ways for her steps to wend, her soul moulded and shaped by much softer rains, but she chose to travel with the storm and the light, and bear proudly the scars of each obstinate fight.

There is no reward for looking behind, her footsteps vanished, the way ahead blind.
She shoulders her burdens, her memories too, she shoulders the aches and the choices once made, and looking briefly about to roads that are paved, she steps without doubt onto stones of the track, the road untravelled, her soul intact.

She steps out; this woman, and looks straight ahead. This point, this now, this girl, who’s she? Forged by her journey, she is all she can be.