Posted by: Peadar Ban | February 3, 2019

Somewhere Along The Way

We took a short trip along the coast into Maine over the weekend. It was to celebrate my arrival here 77 years ago yesterday. I sat and read something or other, an article in a magazine, while Mariellen, my wife, made sure everything was safe for us to leave; the plants were watered, the faucets all closed…things like that. And, of course, reading, and the approach of en event like becoming rather old, got me thinking. One of the things I read was an article about Hemingway, and what moved him along while he was writing. Pilgrimage. After reading, I watched the ice on the river outside. And, I doodled. What follows are my silly doodles:

I walk along counting my fingers, another Santiago, another Compostela.

Others count, too, whatever will do, railroad ties, traffic lights

Old barns in broken fields,, children underfoot, lost chances,

Real dreams and old romances.

All I have left are fingers and memories over and over, Amen, amen!

While roadside flowers lift and fall into the weeds and pretty little angel eyes wink at me in the moon bright sky. Always under them I pass by.

Who leaves, who comes, who goes, I don’t but some One knows, who clears

And builds the road ahead which will be finished, finished and done, done when all are not dead.

The fish in the river down the hill beneath the running ice will tell me when they know and when it is at last done,

When hill and me and stars are done, when all at last are one.

The little wild boy on the shore of the sea, the wild sea,

The same one later on the ice kissed bank who calls to me

The ice no thicker than a finger where I would walk, walk

To the other side. But I never tried for father took and held my hand.

But I would have, yes! I would have gone, left the shore’s safe land

And walked across the river, to the river’s other side.

Not a thing will stay as it was, but will become as it was.

I like to watch the little, quicker, ice run down the river just outside to catch the slowing to a stop edge of the larger plodding floe. Joined, they go to the waiting sea below. One thing now when just two before. Not so long to stay for sure. But now, now they are! The “marriage” of ice is no such thing as that but it is a joining sure. For some, a while, a day, unless in what we might call a “frozen waste” such thing..they stay. Like a white duck on the edge looking for its original self in black water, Just there, doin’ what it oughter.


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