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