A short walk

Seamus Kelly

White wind carved ridges
lead, row by row
to stone and snow sentinels;
the Earth’s watchtowers
peeked through squinting eyes.
Distant, unfelt, unfeeling

Others had been
or may have been
Here; once
Today is only
wilderness and
me

My compass tells north and south
not up, or down
nor safe, nor sound
nor home,
or hope.
My compass does not know hope

Boots rasp on ragged rock,
soles bite into whitest snow
as sun bites into squinting eyes
and into time.
My boots do not know time

Bag straps pull down shoulders
who rise to match weight
all that must be carried
onward and onward
and into the future.
My shoulders do not know the future

It was supposed to be
a short walk
I’m not supposed to be here
still walking
still taking a short walk;
in time

 

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