When I wrote ‘Winter walk‘ poem, I tried it with a final stanza to answer the poem’s questions. But then I could not tell if I had closed down the poem too much.
Here is the stanza I wrote, so you can judge for yourself.
If I make the world
stop for a moment,
and listen,
I can hear the sap
stirring, feel the
explosions of the
tiniest seeds,
almost reach out and touch
the promise of spring.
The trees are dying
Leaves yellow, brown,
drop, rot on paths,
trodden underfoot.
The air is dank,
Sullen November
skies weigh
wearily on the eye.
Passers-by,
preoccupied,
gaze into middle
distance, dodge
all greetings.
The birds have
given up and gone
south; anywhere
but here.
Is this what my
summer beauty has
come to?
Dare I ever hope
for more?
And if I loved forty,
it would be for the sweet joy
of confidence in a room.
And if I loved forty,
it would be that I
knew my place
– inside out.
And if I loved forty,
it would find me able
to sit awhile with someone sad
and mourn.
And if I loved forty,
it would be to see dear friends children
grow old enough to make me
a cup of tea.
And if I loved forty,
I would embrace quiet,
evenings by myself
a blessing of solitude.
And if I loved forty,
it would be for long views still
of growing, and of grandeur.
And if I loved forty,
it would be for patience,
and for knowing
that all things are made new.
And if I loved forty,
my friends too would be
grown and worn into
comfortable grooves of
loving kindness.
And if I loved forty,
I would be wise.
my day was
scheduled to death.
every slot too small to
fit a human.
I had to hope
that no-one had any
curiosity left in them.
or everything would
fall apart.
I was lucky;
they had all forgotten
what life was –
if they ever knew.
obediently they toed the
schedule line,
retrieved themselves from
exuberance.
someone had bad news from from home,
regrouped in a
coffee break,
swallowed sadness and
cappuccino straight down,
got back in the game.
all around us autumn beauty
unfolded steady as a
queen.
we had four point five minutes
in which to walk to the river and back;
by then numb to it all,
I can see it like a photo,
feel nothing.
I don’t know if I can
do this anymore.
a long silence.
mute, I have been wandering
for aeons.
in the dark recesses of my past,
in the unseen glimpses of the future,
all alone underground
tunnels
chasms and
unheard of springs of
ancient purity.
gathering the wisdom
sedimented over time
by giants
and mice.
discovering jewels that
would perhaps glint
given light and time.
nuggets fill my dusty pockets.
weight makes movement slow.
how long have I been
lost to the world outside?
found to myself though;
perilously alive.
breaths of the deepest stillness
fill my lungs,
chase out dreary.
darkness sparkles
a blackness never before
as vibrant.
engulfed by unknowing;
known.
extraplorer 