Sunday, January 22, 2012

The journey

In the darkening of the year lies mystery, and hope
Is buried, brooding and lurking beneath the earth
Till spring. But, like the snowdrops that grow 
Under their November blanket, there comes a time
When the cold of snow and bitter cut of driving rain
Are parted. And then, and only then, the green shoots of
Hope thrust through the matted grass, and the pale
White flower blooms again.
The wild of winter winds, and steely slash of sleet,
Are but echoes of the storm that rages
In the heart of man. 
The driving snow that blizzards across the 
Windscreen of the slowly moving car is but a
Physical manifestation of the storm of words that
Are hurled and flung with acrid hurt from one
Person to another. 
And when the blizzard has settled, and the snow lies calm
Upon the frozen ground, the words will settle too.
Life is no tourist trip or pleasure cruise. There are 
No guarantees of a calm crossing, no
Certainty of a smooth itinerary. Trains will be missed,
And breakdowns will occur, and buses will not run.
But at the end, when the destination is reached, there
Will be time to stand and stare.
There will be time to rest and be still.
There will be time.
(c) 2ndwitch, 18/12/11


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