we may soon stand on the brink
as we near the end of this
slippery slate path switch-backing to an edge
gravity awry
russet bonnets of cold shadow on our heads
tongues cold leather, hard as an old-time bicycle satchel
barely whistling in the graveyard of our radical doubt
that we can escape yet again
tent-pegs in the rising night gale
clinker rowboats on taut fraying painters
specks of bio-dust soon to be lost in the cosmos
someone says we’ll look back at all this and laugh
live to go on pilgrimage on some
far-off future star-led day
when maybe we will all be less
religious
and never have to go at all
such blasphemy does not go down well
as if God might strike us flat when we
are so close
shuffling to a fearful stop at a cliff
with the moon below our feet
more like three stooges than the magi
of old
our little cult no longer a suburban
game
and there is nothing in the valley but
the glint of a tin shed
Ah mate, a fine poem. Thank you. You're right about there being no escape. The free ticket we've all got to the last show pilgrimage is counterfeit. No circus anywhere for as long as we can remember. Hark. There is however a strange light shining from the tin shed at the bottom of the paddock. No one has lived there for years. At least that's what they're saying.
ReplyDeleteSo good! xM
ReplyDeletelive in hope and die in despair v. live in despair and die in hope!
ReplyDelete