how am I to keep on walking, mother?
(you ask this seaside in the late light to no one in particular)
the shore stretches endlessly along and you’re stopped
by the decade when all went quiet
little waves just below flow forth, pull back
(my civilization has lost its markers, mother)
~
here is gilded gold along the cliffs
lace in the foam, like antique tears
(what’s left is some of her handwriting, like a solace)
how was I to plant a garden, mother?
(you ask this seaside in the late light to no one in particular)
mine was an age without barometers
the weather of the winds
was the compass we steered by
~
her losses occur to you later
once you’ve faced your own
like notes of some refrain, the train
of time speeds forth, the passengers
(but mother how am I to?)
“Keep walking,” she says.
And her voice is the wind, coming over the clifftops
and her voice is the sun as it sets, far horizon
(but mother how am I to?)
where was I to plant my garden, mother?
~
one or two things they aren’t going to tell you
is what they did
when they went through losses
those moments you weren’t noticing
the quiet cocoon they’d spun
of silken tears they shed alone
that’s how we cry, as a people
“Keep walking,” she says.
And her voice is the wind, coming over the clifftops
and her voice is the sun as it sets, far horizon
~
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 