after "The Walkers" by John Glenday
In those final moments,
I walked with them
unattached,
no longer one with what is,
a sudden finality ****** upon me,
like so many waves of fire
lapping at a paper boat;
I would never cross this river.
I stop at the bank,
to weigh my worth
and wait,
just downstream of a soldier
flicking his cigarette,
directionless,
one final hiss,
in surrender to the stream.
He couldn't see us
but knew his role,
and a shiver sent him packing
all the same.
I wait,
watching the walkers
gradual dissipation,
each ebbing more
slowly
than the last.
I see them fly
far above the tallest peaks,
lost to my vision
and the insatiable sky,
their light -
scarce as it is,
consumed by the silent stars.
I hear their final cries,
the longing hopeful,
the needy and desperate,
the triumphant and the downtrodden,
I listen to their pleas,
their anguish
and their resolve,
that we might yet heal the world.
Still, I wait
without grief,
and ask only of this humbling river,
how to mend something
that was never whole?
maybe some soap?
