Paths

What good is that rage
Imperative in old age
Against the dying light
Mourning a world so bright

Now at dim noonday
Only middle-aged regret 
Seems appropriately futile
Sun shrouded by the smoke
Of burning forests

Hidden glimpses of the darkened 
Door, the haunted stair, the deep 
Well of unbeing. 

All our unfounded expectations
Like the woman engaged in 
Unsolicited conversation says
Some turn out good, some bad
Discussing the price of coffins
Songbirds fall from the skies
Mountains burning, cities restless
Plague raging over all

And a billion raging at the sky, 
Five billion, will change not
The mysteries of the darkened door
Nor the terrors of the haunted stair
Will not slow the motion of the 
Smoke concealed sun
In its appointed course.

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 View all posts by Duncan MacNae