Haste
What is it in us that makes us leave?
What is it makes us believe
that far sunsets will ease our grief,
touch grass, search long for lost fences
beyond green, beyond buried gems
in distant marshes, lakes and fens,
where treasure is believed to lie?
It is age, all thresholds crossed,
waymarks that once relieved the lost
are on the stones that grow the moss
and the guardians there have fled.
You claimed to have felt palipations
and the pull of distant nations,
that once claimed you as their own,
set sail a weary head for home
and there prepared your sleep.
But it’s a long, long time lying
and we in envy, keep up trying,
grind our bones to make our bread,
tilling soil, sweat and toil, in stress
pound hard hearts, supping breath
from wells that draw from watersheds.
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