The world does not die as the light fades
it does not sleep as the quick do.
It lives on in darkness
in the breath of the wind
in the sigh of the trees
and as the crows retire to their trees
and the dead decay in their coffins
the unquiet world moves on.
New generations are born
and in their tortured births
grow the seeds of their destiny.
The mole-turned turf
and the tumbled stones of hallowed ground
adding another tilt to their
melted and moulded memorials
while hope continues to rebuff despondency.
We look on in the twilight
coffin-cold visions countered
by the promise of another day
to follow the fading light.
Roland's Ragbag 