Hah! Sometimes poets know best.
... take Robert Frost for example and his poem "The Road Not Taken". Had I heeded his advice; had I heeded the advice knowingly tutt-tutting inside my head; had I stopped for a moment to acknowledge the glee on Four-legged-friend's face when he realised I was about to allow him the muddiest bath of his life ...
well! ...
... here's the sorry tale and a muddy tail for good measure -
"Two roads diverged in a wood
... long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth"
The road ahead was shorter. The road behind had two dog walkers, a pair of Labradors (one being an extremely cantankerous old lady, whom we normally avoid at all costs, sometimes with considerable elongation of our walk) and two black bears (Newfoundlands actually, swimming in the stream I had wanted to give Four-legged-friend a dip in, before I worried about him being swept away by the recent-rain-swollen torrent of water, or eaten by over-friendly bears).
So I didn't take "the road less travelled by" - the one with grass and leaves on it. And no puddles. And entirely devoid of mud.
No, I ignored the wisdom of the poet and took the slippery, sludgy, sticky up your wellies and, if canine, between your toes, much travelled path. And as the last line of the poem states "that made all the difference".
Hmmm! Why did we get a puppy in show-up-all-the-dirt-colour?
Why, when I thought of the poem, did I not take the road less travelled?
Had I listened to Robert Frost, I would not now have two dogs and a pair of wellies to clean.
P.S. Before I am ridiculed for my over literal interpretation of a poem that has hidden depth (a bit like those puddles, really) maybe my choice of path was determined more by a desire for the familiar: taking the muddy, much travelled path was safe - the route I had trodden many times before. I could predict the time it would take to get home (significant because I had guests coming to tea); I knew where I was going; even with the need for ablution at its end, it was the secure, unadventurous (who would willingly walk in the footsteps of bears?) and predictable road. Do I opt for the easy path in life? I think we all do. When it matters, we need the security of what lies at the end of our road. But perhaps with a new year lying just over the next hill, I should resolve to "make the difference" and "take the road less travelled by" and then like Frost, "Somewhere ages and ages hence," I will be able to look back "with a sigh"and judge if, in life, as in dog-walks, I made the right choices.
... take Robert Frost for example and his poem "The Road Not Taken". Had I heeded his advice; had I heeded the advice knowingly tutt-tutting inside my head; had I stopped for a moment to acknowledge the glee on Four-legged-friend's face when he realised I was about to allow him the muddiest bath of his life ...
well! ...
... here's the sorry tale and a muddy tail for good measure -
"Two roads diverged in a wood
... long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth"
The road ahead was shorter. The road behind had two dog walkers, a pair of Labradors (one being an extremely cantankerous old lady, whom we normally avoid at all costs, sometimes with considerable elongation of our walk) and two black bears (Newfoundlands actually, swimming in the stream I had wanted to give Four-legged-friend a dip in, before I worried about him being swept away by the recent-rain-swollen torrent of water, or eaten by over-friendly bears).
So I didn't take "the road less travelled by" - the one with grass and leaves on it. And no puddles. And entirely devoid of mud.
No, I ignored the wisdom of the poet and took the slippery, sludgy, sticky up your wellies and, if canine, between your toes, much travelled path. And as the last line of the poem states "that made all the difference".
Hmmm! Why did we get a puppy in show-up-all-the-dirt-colour?
Why, when I thought of the poem, did I not take the road less travelled?
Had I listened to Robert Frost, I would not now have two dogs and a pair of wellies to clean.
P.S. Before I am ridiculed for my over literal interpretation of a poem that has hidden depth (a bit like those puddles, really) maybe my choice of path was determined more by a desire for the familiar: taking the muddy, much travelled path was safe - the route I had trodden many times before. I could predict the time it would take to get home (significant because I had guests coming to tea); I knew where I was going; even with the need for ablution at its end, it was the secure, unadventurous (who would willingly walk in the footsteps of bears?) and predictable road. Do I opt for the easy path in life? I think we all do. When it matters, we need the security of what lies at the end of our road. But perhaps with a new year lying just over the next hill, I should resolve to "make the difference" and "take the road less travelled by" and then like Frost, "Somewhere ages and ages hence," I will be able to look back "with a sigh"and judge if, in life, as in dog-walks, I made the right choices.
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