by Edward Curtin
Here we are in the middle of our lives.
Somewhere someone is reading a book,
Quietly, deep in thought, pages are turning
In a peaceful place cut off from the world.
It is early morning, it is late in the day.
An old woman is slowly walking to church,
Her husband dead eight aching years,
And though they never got along in life,
She's wondering what has become of him,
Where, out of this dream, he has gone.
It is early morning, it is late in the day.
Somewhere a man is sipping a cup of coffee,
Sleepily, trying to awaken into life,
As if all the answers had arrived,
The book before him an angel in disguise.
We wait, thinking they will come,
Knowing they won't, hoping they will.
The shadow of doubt crosses the sun.
People somewhere, everywhere, hold their breaths,
Trying to save themselves from something.
It is early morning, it is late in the day.
A teenage girl, desperate for affection,
Assiduously searches a series of esoteric texts
That promise an answer to her longing.
None comes, the world turns, nothing
Fills the emptiness she swallows.
It is early morning, it is late in the day.
Here we are in the middle of our lives,
Quietly, deep in thought, turning the pages
Of our inscrutable books, timeless classics.
(Article changed on August 17, 2016 at 11:15)
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