June 2018
In “After the Storm” I’m trying to explore something of the mystery of life, its strange, unpredictable mixture of beauty and travail and its continuous series of choice and consequence.
After the Storm.
Two paths forked
on the mountainside.
Kilgrin, shivering and wet,
sheltered under an overhang.
The storm was abating.
Blue-black clouds
rushed in rumble and flash
further down the valley.
Columns of light
like celestial spokes
descended and dissolved
above the far mountainside.
Behind him the sinuous past
spooled through swamp,
rock-pool, canyon,
river-wandering valley,
boulder-strewn roads,
litter of bright flowers,
sun-dappled ridges,
and this last fierce storm.
I can choose the path
but not the mixture
of burden or beauty hidden
behind each bend or rise.
Are my only real choices
in response, in how I walk,
in what weights I carry,
in what weights I discard?
And do these weights,
those known and unknown,
direct and predetermine
both path and walk?
He sat for a long while.
The sky had cleared.
Last light pooled in puddles
and gleamed on wet rock.
The dark mountain loomed.
He stood and walked.
The Evening Star glowed
in the growing gloom.
© 2018 Neil Creighton
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