Processional in Gray
On the banks of the river of Time the sad procession of
human generations is marching slowly to
the grave. . . Bertrand Russell
Barely dawn, and down
by the river they are shuffling,
leaving no footprints.
They move like the fog that winds
between trees and slips through inlets
touching moss and cypress stump.
They are whispering as they walk, talking
to each other, their voices weightless
as a communion wafer on the tongue.
Above their heads, a bird's bright song
and a limb silvered by sun, the river
a dazzle of light, a mirror of sky
broken and alive. Cascades
of laughter in small waves lapping,
our voices from afar call, "Remember!"
But the walkers do not hear.
Nothing we say will matter.
Nothing we do. Their eyes are set
toward the grave, toward the deep earth,
grains of stone. The billows of storm
and lung are still. Their trade is bone.
In gray shadows they are walking,
complete and whole,
done with remembering.
Sue Scalf
http://www.members.aol.com/poetscalf
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