Photograph by Harriet Griffey
It will all be discarded in the end
It will all be discarded in the end:
the sea and strand; the stark triumphant light.
Days topple into days til night descends.
Useless to try to make the world your friend;
to make your peace with the approaching blight.
It will all be discarded in the end.
Rivers abide. They seem sometimes to tend
our withering crop of booty, pale and slight.
Days topple into days til night descends.
You end up being an uneasy blend
of you and it: the world and its delights.
It will all be discarded in the end.
You make a pact. You try not to offend
the forces dark, the terrible forces bright.
Days topple into days til night descends.
You're not given a thing, though world has blent
itself with you. You're just an acolyte.
It will all be discarded in the end.
Days topple into days til night descends.
Alan Humm is the editor of One Hand Clapping.