The Stragglers

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.