The aimless days have wandered
down dusty lanes, over grassy glens,
past ancient oaks and lonely pines.
Wandered through life’s brambles,
stumbled across rock strewn fields,
sliding down mounded glacial moraines.
Each step, each fault, seen,
ingested, commented, remembered,
captured by a watcher’s view.
Day becomes night, night becomes day,
the endless cycle repeats, breathing
only when the moment of dawn and
twilight squeeze through the door
of change, of revival and rest.
The observer is always there, peering,
claiming satisfaction from the
monotony of this human processional,
this thunderous herd of lemmings rushing
to that ultimate cliff on the horizon.
There is no pity for the plight, no
remorse, no cantica of life, there is a reaping,
a gathering of each soul’s casings
remains of journey, the last shining rays
of mortality caught by the infinite lens
of the creator’s spyglass.
Copyright: 2011, Donald Harbour
If you have finished this poem you may be scratching your head about its meaning. I do not normally interpret my poetry for others, rather I enjoy allowing the reader to comprehend it in their own frame of reference. Its meaning should be what you feel. Several readers have said they do not find a continuity in the thread of thought that caused this to be written. Here is some help, think ‘limits’ and how they come about. Now read it again.
- We are limited by the path we choose to travel in life. Some have a much more enjoyable passage than the rock strewn journey most of us travel.
- We are limited by the belief that religion will save up from our choices.
- We are limited by the influences of the society, culture, and persons with whom we gather on our journey.
- And, if you believe in kismet or destiny, we are also limited by the life plan chosen for us at birth by our god.
- We are limited by the length of life and all the ‘could have beens’ as well as unfinished poetry we should have written.
There is no cantica, we have to sing our own song. Have you sung your’s today?