firth -
part
of the
sea; ebbs and
flows - an inlet of
the ocean at a wide river
estuary, a place where mourning songs are sung and
souls are lost and found and secrets revealed and waters are wide; a place to breathe for once.
the firth is where there is a separation of ways.
where we walk down one river each
and we don’t look back
go forward
forget
the
past.

“over drowned summits.
Still white backdrop:
Scattered farms, spiked chapels,
dead ravines, dams motionless in blue steel.”

- Andrey Gritsman, “Last Day Of The Year”

There is no hill
Over by the way -
Rather, there is a
deep ravine that carves
Against the land and
Crushes, erases
In vigorous strokes
All who dare to
Stray too close
Over drowned summits.

As they fall and fall,
There is no forgiveness.
There is fear -
There is despair -
And then there is
The disappointing wash
Of pained acceptance
There is just one
Moment of pause, of
Still white backdrop.

The eyes roam over all
That there is to see
In a world that is soon to
Disappear; to fade into
Darkness and silence and
Whatever else awaits,
To take in the views
Of the living land
One last time -
Scattered farms, spiked chapels.

We travel deeper and deeper and
In the dark, there is a near-silence
That shocks to the core,
Moreso than even the loudest noises.
And finally, the grand finale,
The dull thump of a body
(No one hears it - does the tree really fall?)
And the padded footsteps of a reaper
Having come to claim it’s own - of
Dead ravines, dams motionless in blue steel.

parts are
flesh
and bone
and all that lives

yet-
brain is metal
and stone
and all that kills