Sooner or Later
Sooner or later, the bombs may fall on us, too.
Our lives, like matchsticks, going up in flames.
The cloud will be a tremendous plume of folly,
As dark as its offerings to those who are covered by it.
My first thought will be of them:
Of her, tending her garden, making art with the soil and summer.
Of her, gathering roses and mountains, while she writes history.
Of her with both the lore and the love of it, singing in her bones.
I will turn my thoughts to the girl who kept me company when England was sleeping.
I’ll let myself believe she is still wrapped up in the kindness of blankets;
Not afraid of this at all.
I will picture the stoic, walking with an umbrella he always let me stand beneath, and see him lift his head, in my mind’s eye,
To watch the sky go black, in mourning.
The sirens do not scream with hopes of shipwreck, now,
They are the warnings, growing louder.
There must be people who race towards disaster only to help.
Only to try.
I will close my eyes and think of all the others who have mattered,
I will feel them, as softly as tears.
Their voices safe with me, though they are far away.
I will hold one person closest,
Close enough to whisper
Of all that matters and of everything that is.
Life may choose to leave us
Or after the rain,
Or long before the last lemon poppy cake is eaten
But it will not take, with it, who we are.
It cannot put out the stars we have enchanted
In the moonlight
Or move that heart of yours from next to mine.
It cannot reclaim the minutes that were given,
Or make time believe that we were never here.
I let the sun touch my face,
As I write of days I hope might never come.
I am one breathing creature in this world,
And if we see the cloud and live to tell the tale,
I am certain I’ll remember
That there was nothing more important
On the day that heaven fell,
Than the ones we choose to love.