Margin

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

in its blind surety

always too busy to think

think, things through

its clever and cunning

brings only cataracts

and sudden sink holes

 

always glossing over

dependent upon

immediacy and desire.

it sees not the margin

at the edge of the page

where the truth is written

 

hens in a coop

they coo, chatter and cluck

as the spirit

silently passes them by;

no knock on the door

which they might hear

 

pecking in the mud

always for more corn

and the winter’s eggs

lie unsullied in the hay

and soon, there is nothing

for them to brood upon

 

in the tranquil margin

the water reeds bow

as the spirit plays his flute

softly amongst them

and the warm wind fades

into the cold of night

 

there in the margin

the ghost, the sprite

an ephemera, even a man

waits for an aeon

for a sensitivity which

never, ever comes

 

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world