A paradox perhaps, a tender plot of
providence which flows erratically in
coarser grains of sand; no evenness
to contemplate as soothing sense of
strand, vista laid for feet to smoothly
step upon – it is a barren space you
pray between a choice of crumbling
rocks and mien of destiny delayed
Leaving takes no energy; why wait
on rituals past their use-by date or
on beyond as rites of passage worn,
going makes the future safe, remain
and fete a past still seamed in churn
per se as is, if ever choice pertains
© 10 May 2012, I. D. Carswell
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