To trudge it is to span the years
On mudded boot-prints,
To share the uphill struggle of careworn life.
This puddled, rutted track,
A hundred years in the fine rain,
Beneath the low-hung, frayed clouds.
To judge it is to play the fool
On the harsh hill,
To dare to presume
On ghosts marched.
And it ends at the rusted bar,
Where the time and toil and spoil
Began and still begin
And the bridge between is hewn away.