Where Do I Go From Here
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and be one traveller, long I stood.
Whenever we were allowed to bury our dead
properly again it felt like we were catching up
with funerals, so much so that I could have
taken the service myself from start to finish
without hesitation, and me a heathen;
a heathen with a touch of envy
of the faithful, for their ardent belief
in a celestial reunion, for a long
as they needed, a hand on their elbow
guiding them through their grief;
and I have love, family and friendship,
and comfort in a life well lived.
But I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep.
The Days Are on the Turn
Wurdi Youang,
stones set carefully,
intricate as a Swiss watch,
one hundred basalt boulders,
tracked the sun and stars,
measured time in seasons,
marked the turning of the year;
they understood,
well, the movement of time.
Understood better than Harrison,
who invented a clock
that allowed Cook to sail
halfway around the world,
to plant a flag on your beach
that has flown for five minutes,
if your time was a day;
and when you have been here for a day,
one thing you have is patience,
for days when oceans will rise
and the earth will fold in on itself,
when time is no longer
carried in a pocket
or worn on a wrist,
when time is circular,
when time is measured
by stones and sun
and stars.
Flights, Issue Fourteen, November 2024
Flight of the dragonfly 