Saturday, 30 June 2018

After the Storm

After the Storm.

Two paths forked
on the mountainside.
Kilgrin, shivering and wet,
sheltered under an overhang.

The storm was abating.
Blue-black clouds 
rushed in rumble and flash 
further down the valley.

Columns of light
like celestial spokes
descended and dissolved
above the far mountainside.

Behind him the sinuous past 
spooled through swamp, 
rock-pool, canyon,
river-wandering valley,

boulder-strewn roads,
litter of bright flowers,
sun-dappled ridges,
and this last fierce storm.

I can choose the path
but not the mixture 
of burden or beauty hidden
behind each bend or rise.

Is my only real choice 
in response, in how I walk,
in what weights I carry,
in what weights I discard?

Do the weights I carry,
those known and unknown,
direct and predetermine
both path and how I walk?

He sat for a long while.
The sky had cleared.
Last light pooled in puddles 
and gleamed on wet rock.

The dark mountain loomed.
He stood and walked.
The Evening Star glowed
in the growing gloom.

First published in Verse-Virtual









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