Stragglers waited along the bend
like swept-in-heap leaves
bundled closely because of the wind
and the late, off-season cold.
We had seen such drama before,
but the trees' roots seemed to rake in
something other than dust.
Wild calla would have to be in bloom
soon,
and snowbells promised a heady
fragrance.
Outside these, nature seemed bland,
controlled, safely harboured in man's
lap,
spring fuelling the sap leafwards.
An odd zeitgeist wafted from wide-open
windows
along whirls of the burnt fat of bacon,
(every day felt like a Sunday morning)
elderberry wine and fresh toasts.
Great puddles of sunlight bathed the
kitchen tiles
and bounced on glasses and glasses,
revelling in a high-flown morris.
The swish-swish of the sweeper grated
the hours
which the town clock failed to strike,
infuriating the pell-mell stragglers.
Some were content with just staying
put,
and silence had been requested a long
time hence.
Rigor mortis wasn't such a bad bargain,
after all,
though the wind made them more alive
than necessary, while the trees seemed
unaffected,
albeit slanting slightly to the south.
Over a year ago, the last of the
stragglers had smiled.
Unimportant as it appeared to the-then
onlookers,
this never happened again, and things
which happen
only once are worth jotting down,
both philosopher and carpenter say
so.
So he had smiled and had fallen to the
ground,
in an exact similitude of death.
There he lay still, covered in leaves,
unheeded by the other stragglers
who went on waiting along the bend.
They thought they were quite happy
there,
and one of them had declared, one day:
“This is a good enough place to
straggle.”
The tree under which they had settled
shaded them from the sun come Summer,
shielded them from the wind come
Autumn.
Ravished their eyes in Spring.
Only in Winter would they truly be miserable.
They had been there so long
that they had quite forgotten
who it was they had walked behind,
and for what particular reason.
The leaders had long been gone
out of their sight, out of their mind.
Oddly, and by the same token,
was also put out of their mind
the very reason why they had halted –
probably somebody had wanted
to relieve their bladder against the
aspen.
For all they knew, here was as good a
spot as any.
But – and this was uncanny –
nobody had sent for them
nor had their number dwindled.
Odder still was that ensued no mayhem,
nor any resentment was kindled.
They had passed from walking to waiting
faster than can strike a bolt of
lightning.
And it was generally considered no
fault
of any who had left nor of any who was
present.
Even though the situation had
precipitated
a whole set of problems, from losing
track of time
to hunger, to stiffness in the limbs,
to quick fits of boredom and hatred.
But they could rest, chat with the
locals,
behold life answer about its many
calls.
Yet they flickered like the leaves of
the aspen
in the faintest of breezes ever,
their own breath seemingly shortened –
menaced by the slightest sweeper –
covered in dust, shame and light.
