Fragments And Reflections

Waiting

Which day and which place, 

we're still never sure,

but yet this interminable 

greyness of being:

bare trees and old boots 

that never quite fit;

bald, empty roads 

with no-one to meet,

landscapes to view, 

not places to visit;

just aimless wandering 

and chance dispositions

- giving words to some 

(and numbers to others),

giving dance to you 

(and thinking to me) - 

that determine positions

and fashion perspectives,

that fill baskets with sand 

and carrots and whips.

That safety of promises 

we know we can't trust,

of 'Surely tomorrow' 

and weary regret.

(Some say we are Lucky, 

aiming to mollify -

pigs on the ropes of 

those that walk blindly.)

And the stories of thieves 

and tree-nailed salvation:

meaningless twaddle 

or ultimate Truth?

There's easier sense in 

the nonsense of lawyers

and golf and philosophers

and skating and stones.

But we don't dance the Net 

or the Scapegoat's Agony,

or believe what we see 

or admit what we know.

We don't hold on to 

the purpose we glimpse:

rare jewels like dew drops

on cobwebs at dawn.

We bicker and argue 

and try to remember,

each day like dream's ash

as memories flicker.

So this then is it, 

the sum of our stories,

us stumbling, tumbling 

and bumbling along:

God's nonsense riddle 

of living and dying,

of life made sense of 

in poems and song.