On a promontory between two rivers
flowing out to sea, I walk alone.
One river thrashes virulent.
The other flows placid.
In their parallel journeys, one fights
as the other accedes to tide’s inevitable purge;
a resigned recognition
of the unjust workings of the world.
I am alone with the silence and the fog,
the flecks of rain on the grass at my feet,
and the overcast glow of the sky
as the sun’s faint orange ekes through white.
Pale light glosses the evening; a reminder
of another day, another era fading.
Smoke drifts from distant chimneys;
the heavy ash a smell, black as this land’s history.
It rises silent above the rooftops,
carrying secrets unuttered, toxic.
I pace to the sound of my own blood
pulsing behind my ears.
I accede to the rhythm of my heartbeat,
as the rivers accede to their end.
The smoke accedes to the sky,
as the people accede to their myth.
The land accedes to the waves,
as history crumbles in clods of broken past.
The sea is giant tear, rolling down the cheek
of a nation, stained with blood and ash.
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