The Final Say
Wading into deeper waters. The suck of cold, black streams. The bristling palmiets barbing at our ankles, splayed beneath my step: as if trampling were the only way to keep myself afloat. We were always bound to meet with my undealt-with mires. To stumble into years of piling silt and overgrowth, to stir it clouding to the surface — this the purpose of repentance: what must die must first be looked at, sifted out and spoken of as what it is then washed away, downstream, to be forgotten. Love uncovers and then covers, if I let it: helps me slowly out the muck like soldiers grasping forward, one arm free, the other on another’s shoulder. The upward way, the downward — were these always equal, drowning would not terrify. The truer downward way, the deeper way, is through: the trudging through the river, over piled shelves of sand and ribs of lacing reeds, but reaching always for the bank. Quiet in the car back home. Our change of clothes. The colour of the cloud-surrounded fields. Patient patchwork — love and anger piling over one-another, my old anger, other, older Love. How is it Love has always had the final say? Let it be that way with us, in colder, deeper currents.



Poignant imagery, thank you for sharing