The speaker is about to leave town, and the thought sits uneasily "at the back of my mind." He rides his bike through familiar streets, passing coffeeshops, bookshops, libraries and old corners where he once watched the crowds. The faces he nods at have aged along with him. He also notices how the city has changed: wider roads, malls and tall apartments have replaced trees, small shops and tile-roofed houses, and he struggles to recall what stood there before.
Then comes a turn. The dull ache he feels, he realizes, is the knowledge that he cannot really leave. He dreams of snowy peaks and vast forests, but travel feels safe only because home waits at the end of it. The mood is wistful and tender, tinged with loss. The closing image of a ghost lingering in the shadows of "the garden of my life" suggests he may already feel like a lingering presence in a place that is slowly disappearing.