Ant McNaught

I see the people on the street,
gnarled and bent and kind.
I will walk out in the world.
I will seek what I may find.
What truth may serve to nourish them?
What words that I could tell?
If I live their story twice as long,
will I tell it half as well?
Will I find the strength of heart I need?
Will my love go the distance?
Or must I fall back and be cut down
in the pockets of resistance?
 
At harvest time, they hunger.
In the noonday sun, they shiver.
In the silence of their longing,
they cry to be delivered.
But the devil, he’s got so many cards,
he calls trumps in every hand
and he’s got nothing riding
on the promised land.
From the shell-game of desire,
from memory’s persistence,
from the whole cloth of the comedy
make pockets of resistance.
 
I sit and watch the maple tree
shed its golden crown
and the winter’s light come filtered through
as the leaves come tumbling down.
And the beauty makes me catch my breath
to see such practice of the art of death.
With all the love at my command,
I will fight for my existence
and when it ends, I’ll join my friends
in the pockets of resistance.