Quiet morning
Morning to leave behind
Unbearable burden of the
Past. To forget and forswear
Murder, kneecapping, baseball bats,
Random gunfire, stones, truck assassinations
Gasoline bombs, rage and pride.
Morning to remember mountains,
The last time we saw him, strong and whole,
Music and song triumphant, justice
Come ‘round again, come the first time
Give a taste of mercy, of kindness
Where are the rioters of kindness?
Where is the mercy mob?
Changing of seasons occupy these poems
Light now changing, chill in the air, shortened
Days. Time racing in its track like an ancient
Penny arcade machine, filled with tin horses.
Leaves begin to fall, irresistible poetical image
Marvel of the the revolving year, and the sun
To come winter-hot through bare branches.
Premonitions of frost, do the fading flowers
Number their days? If only we had faith
The sun could run backward across the sky
If only we had hope, love would fill this
Autumn dawn. If only we had love
We could change seasons.
But still would come to that last sleep-bringing
Frost, and quiet until the ever-altering spring
Comes around again.
Poetical political multifarious
Impatient decisive horticultural
Growth upon growth, decay under decay
We begin again the interminable wait
For the coming of the green-blushed branches
Revenant ash leaves, rain-bringing oak.
Author: Duncan MacNae
Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees.
duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com
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