Rites of passage . . .

Lead them through the waiting storms, carry them when
The ground is mired in mud, hold their hands through
The dark woods, and perhaps one day, maybe, just maybe,
You will arrive in a golden valley, all sunlit and clear.
The small hand that winds its fingers into yours, clasping
Trustingly, is a trust that is sacred; a trust that must not be broken.
A broken trust is a crime beyond any other,
And the day that trust is broken is the saddest day in all time.
Time is endless and yet we are in the final days,
It is no longer the summer of our lives, but
The deadened leaves of autumns ghastly raiment
Fall and drift to cover all our yesterdays,
And on the wind is the first murmuring of the winds of winter.
And when winter comes, then will be the dying of our days.
The snow and ice of tomorrow is echoed back down the years,
And the raindrops that run, without mercy, down our necks
Are the harbingers of the black night, and all of our tears
Are shed in vain, but for the tiny hand that grasps so tight.
A long road winds before us, longer still behind, and yet
When the first light of the new day creeps behind the trees,
We know we are broken, and brought to our knees,
Before we resume the journey once again.

© 2ndwitch, 12/10/14

(My thanks to Dougie MacLean, whose lovely song, 'Rite of Passage' was the inspiration for this poem. As well as writing some cracking music he appears to be a genuinely lovely man, and well worth seeing live! See http://www.dougiemaclean.com for info.)

Hot buttered toast.

On this old world man sits and wonders
Why this is how things have to be.
In the new world man sits and wonders
Why this is how things now are.
In the only world man sits and wonders
But does not know what he wonders.
Life is bizarre, and the birds are calling
In the night hours, whilst
The fish jump and wave lazily
At the passing angler.
The bell used to ring
But now it tolls not for you.
If you walk down the steps
There are ghosts that will keep you company.
And small children laugh to see you cry.
Tomorrow there may be a reason why
Yesterday has gone but had no reason
Today is only the question that
Cannot be answered.
The ticking clock measures the minutes
And the hours as they pass relentless
And without pause.
The lines on the pavement measure
The distance you have walked
And mark out how far you
Have still to travel.
Do you travel?
Do we travel?
Are we on the old world, or
On the new, or are we simply
Passengers on this only world as it
Spins slowly through space
So fast that we feel the wind in our hair?
But the cat curls up and basks
In the moonlight, and the dog
Sometimes barks and sometimes
Does not.

© 2ndwitch, 09/10/14

Written on reading.

There is a time, one time, that comes to all, and will not be denied,
A time when friends fade and family stand aside, and then, and
Only then, can the time be known; then it must be embraced.
For no-one can know the human soul, no-one can feel the wind of
Change that blows and howls through every thought, through the
Very heart of being. Yet, and yet. And yet.
The time will come. Know this, the time will come.
If you are not ready when the time comes, the time will
Still come, there is no defence, no delay.
There can be no denial, when time comes that day.

© 2ndwitch