Too late! Too late for legend –
no time for work in clay.
Affliction like a shroud
covers all we do and say.
It isn’t easy – going on –
hosting echoes and relearning to speak
with the bereft and suffering –
once so strong, now so weak.
Light years we dialogued with children,
planting trees where roads have to go –
waiting for the flowering of an image –
a living image in which we might grow.
Now, rhythms, nourished in the tap-roots,
move like tongues to help us hear
the sound that signals us to stand up
and risk ourselves for peace