On this slippery bank of lapse
more rain is forecast heavy
and cold as twilight enters the day,
so like a place of misremembering
you must cross to, and off you go.
After rain, the ford is tenuous;
artifacts from the load on your back
fall away into the water’s hand.
Stream-soaked, in the faltering light,
you fear your cross could fail,
but grip the far bank heartened
by the rushing-water sound of applause.
Old one tug what remains
to safety, grieve your angry grief,
dry up rest up soak in that fading
sound of water like a lauding.
It speaks perhaps to the harrow of your ford.
- J. O’Brien
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