Sunday, December 16

The Aftermath.




The Aftermath 
Passively they wait

On chairs of tubular steel

With worn brown seats of moquette.

…whatever is true…

Minutes slink by in the space

Left silently peopled

By worry.

…whatever is noble…

There, black-uniformed security

Usher restless souls

To relative safety.

…whatever is right…

With frozen smiles

And blank eyes

They size up

The future vacuum.

…whatever is pure…

Hearts beat wildly

The pulse races madly

They breathe…slowly and deliberately.

…whatever is lovely…

There is sky,

And urban normality

Somewhere out there.

But ,

In another past ,

In a different life.

…whatever is admirable…

They think on these things.

Linking this poem to The Mag 148  today.

and also for dVerse 75... this week organised by Joseph Hesch..






...such a scene...the dark day and the lonely road...could belong to a Seamus Heaney anthology!....thankyou Tess!