Great blue heron flies north
from the river towards the hills
the season is heading that way
from summer’s southern ease towards the western call
The direction of questing’s journey
striding past summer’s adolescent hopes born of fear,
marching through the great adult work of making a living
with sword and shield crafted in devil’s fiery compromise.
Now at dusk these weapons I leave behind
- hands emptied by victory’s sand through fingers slipping –
all I can carry is my bible for a pillow to sleep upon
listening for pre-dawn’s call
where my soul’s angel sister
remembers what I lost
when Eden’s innocence fell
to the work of being a man.
We all first must climb
tomorrow’s peak of promise
to discover what no one tells…
“there is no greener grass”.
On the other side
we meet travellers coming our way
in search of the same thing
looking in the green lands we’ve already mined of fool’s gold.
The grail is an empty cup
and any crumbs of meaning
were long ago stolen by Elijah’s crows
to feed the seventh generation yet to come.
No drink but our own blood
no food but our own flesh
no truth but our own breath
no questions left to break the falling
as once sure footing slips
into weakened knees
into memory’s doubting, finger’s grasping
at the fearfull forgetting of “once upon a time”
Without a name,
without the answers,
without the will to climb again,
I scramble in nightmares for what once crafted my world.
They are broken tools
sharp edges dulled by time
they’ve lost the magic
my hands once turned them to.
Exhausted by the searching.
Bruised and broken by the falling.
Worn down by the grief of losing me, myself, and mine.
There is only still the lullaby
my sister angel sings
calling me to rise again
to dance what was born in me to dance
towards the setting sun.