The Socratic Traveller
Beneath the inconsistent skies Be moves, in sun and sudden rain, The rinsed air following, his eyes Undaunted, as if unaware Of what might turn aside their stare And mitigate the real terrain.
He begs the truth of all he sees— The city and the village, plain And moorland stream, the crowded trees, Each street, each desolate high hill— He finds no meaning but he will Not mitigate the real terrain: He prosecutes his pilgrimage Toward the sceptic's partial gain Of seeing what is false—the gauge Of truth becomes whatever he Cannot discern as sophistry That mitigates the real terrain.
Until he penetrates by slow Degrees to ignorance, the vain Obverse of all that he would know: And, pausing, he is made aware It is his constant presence there That mitigates the real terrain.
Dick Davies
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