(2.0)
When I first saw the misted strand
(not quite a desert, nor even yet at peace),
I gasped:
At the endless ocean breaking from beyond,
embayed within a continent-long shore
in curving crashing sweeping rolling chords
descending into echoes, undertows
of thunder in its susurrating roar –
heedless of the withered valley’s cries for rain –
pounding deep below the reddened craggy spine
which buried thousands in a night;
Remembering: How small we are,
however many there may be.
Locked away
under blackening clouds in a darkened room
with ageing bones on a tightened frame
which used to march and trek and hike
and wander…
Deep in the pile of twisted knots
that pass for my emotions, sparks catch
and current flows, out of sterile ruts to joy:
a moment shivers, suggestive in its subtlety,
to imply there might be hope…
Facing the axe. Hearing
the heavy blade’s heart-cutting ‘whoosh’,
stunned, before thought can hold;
retreat is not an option,
it will split your spine instead…
Neither charity nor faith will save you
in this moment –
nor holding back, nor living with reserve –
only an attack, triggered deep below,
inside that falling curve
I was beaten there:
black and blue; knocked down. It healed;
harder to accept.
Maintain the Advance! 