The Wanderer You’ve always been a wanderer; you’ve always felt that roots were tailor-made for grass and trees while you’ve gone round in boots. You seldom get to wondering what you believe and why; the thought you might regret it makes you laugh until you cry. You’ve never been to Canada, New Zealand, or Peru; you’ve never seen the Taj Mahal, Beijing, or Kathmandu. I somehow doubt you’ll canter on a horse into Versailles: the thought you might regret it makes you laugh until you cry. You’ve never been to Portugal, Barbados, or New York. I think you peaked performance-wise the day you learnt to talk. You’ve never been important, and you’ve never been a spy: the thought you might regret it makes you laugh until you cry. You’ve never been to Chile, Pakistan, or New Orleans. I guess you tired of competition in your early teens. You don’t have any children to salute you when you die: the thought you might regret it makes you laugh until you cry. You’ve never been to Singapore, New Guinea, or Japan; you didn’t want to run a race that everybody ran. You listen to birds singing in the wilderness of Skye; the thought you might regret it makes you laugh until you cry. You’ve always been a wanderer. You’ve always felt that roots were tailor-made for grass and trees while you’ve gone round in boots. You seldom get to wondering what you believe and why; the thought you might regret it makes you laugh until you cry. Duncan Gillies MacLaurin If you've any comments on this poem,  Duncan Gillies MacLaurin would be pleased to hear from you.