Lew Welch

THE SONG MT. TAMALPAIS SINGS

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Human movements,

but for a few,

are Westerly.

Man follows the Sun.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Or follows what he thinks to be the

movement of the Sun.

It is hard to feel it, as a rider,

on a spinning ball.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Centuries and hordes of us,

from every quarter of the earth,

now piling up,

and each wave going back

to get some more.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

"My face is the map of the Steppes,"

she said, on this mountain, looking West.

My blood set singing by it,

to the old tunes,

Irish,

among these Oaks.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Once again we celebrate the great Spring Tides.

Beaches are strewn again with Jasper,

Agate, and Jade.

The Mussel-rocks stand clear.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Once again we celebrate the

Headland's huge, carin-studded fall

into the Sea.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

For we have walked the jeweled beaches

at the feet of the final cliffs

of all Man's wanderings.

This is the last place

There is nowhere else to go.