The Lost

The ancient mother stirs
     Like seas upon the sun.
The terror of her horsemen
     Brings shadows to the dawn.

With shattered hopes as dull
     As plastic butter-knives
The carver, blow by blow,
     Reveals our hidden lives.

The current draws the leaf
     Downstream. A devil-wind
Throws dust upon our eyes,
     Surrounds us with its din.

The lost soul turns a page;
     The book is lying open.
This fatal line is written:
     "Your circle shall be broken."

Where is the love or joy
     That will remain itself?
Where is the rock to rest
     A battered, weary self?

To run away forever,
     From storm to storm be tossed:
This is the dreaded way
     For those whose souls are lost.

The planter sows his dreams.
     The lover reaps their worth.
The lost sail over the seas
     And search the wide, wide earth

For something that is love,
     For something that is joy,
For something that brings happiness
     That time cannot destroy.

Where shall we find it, love,
     This ancient dream of men?
Of peace, of comfort, love
     Which lingers till the end?

The future is a ruse
     That cannot be descried.
The will of Fate is all
     And cannot be denied.

The dusk approaches. Night
     Is waiting in the wings.
I'll make my stand and wonder
     What new life morning brings.

George Chadderdon © 1999