Back to George

 

 

The Lane

 Inside we long so desperately

to lie between those things we see,

and not be drawn or pushed, misled

into the thoughts that lay ahead.

 

Upon this lane, a truth abides,

which can remind the heart just why,

the distance ‘twixt two points is not,

a calculated afterthought.

 

A lifetime sings between each stone,

an eon spans each leaf that’s blown.

The space between those things we see

are moments marked eternally.

 

The aging autumn quilted leaves,

a syncopated springtime breeze;

a warm embrace the summer long,

the haunting evening cricket song.

 

A tangled stump, the furious bee,

a woodpecker’s cacophony.

The geese aloft in pure delight,

the fading dappled orange light.

 

It’s in between those things we feel,

the infinite come whole and real,

and not upon the future rest

but cradled in the moment, blessed.

 

From iron gate to house alight,

so softly clings the hallowed night,

like curtains parting restive thoughts

to bring us back to what we’ve brought.

 

Each moment that we carry plain,

become faint shadows that remain,

to linger in those things yet here

still in between, and never near.