Here's a poem written by a long-distance hiker, Beer Poet, who is now hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. (He's also famous for his poem, "The Rainy Day (AT Poem)"
My Compass (8/13)
15 miles from Oregon
that I had lost a close friend. . .
This is a horribly tragic moment.
That compass had become my mirror,
my reflection of the real world. . .
When it looked back at me
I found movement and direction.
"Oh what grief!"
If only it could talk. . .
It would yell out,
“Help! . . .
Take me to my friend!”
and it would tell grandiose stories of adventure
(It could tell one hell of a tale.)
but it lies quiet somewhere . . .
without the movement . . .
without serving me well.
And the hush of the wind
sings a lulling sad lament
as the morning begins
the stars fade, and the sky turns
from black to early grey. . .
and I sip on a cup of tea
with a distant bugle playing taps in my head
. . . and I miss my compass.
The Beer Poet