The Road On Which We Travel
There are many doors on which these
hands have knocked but which rest especially
on yours, closed like a face turned
whose quiet mouth cannot smile.
How soft the sound our voices made
in summertime at youth, and how, now,
with little effort they shift the memories
of years into moments of ill ease,
a disturbance in words that has become
so frail our language fails.
The road on which we travel is old,
having no birds to mark its stay,
nor any flowers arguing colours
in the face of grey.
No sunshine gleams without a first acceptance
as I stand watching you take
away whatever matters so that it will not matter.
I will pass over one more turn of the earth
then watch you in the distance, catching
the brilliance that extends itself
beyond reason, you assuming the mantle
of one determined.
You are silent as rain not yet fallen,
unable to sound the words I need to hear,
fallen into moments of confusion,
the one hand clapped in silence,
your Zen heaven disturbed
whilst the door stays closed,
my hands knocking until
the night is done.
John Cornwall
If you've any comments on his poems, John Cornwall will be
glad to hear from you.
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