I
Waiting for the bus to come
in the midday heat, for the time to come
for feet to make their way
aboard and find a seat
for the coach to run and totter
down to the teeming town.
It was there, a woman beside me
helped me gather my papers up
saying why not stay, we could live as one?
I thanked her, saying I would stay in touch
we smiled, held hands
that promised much.
Waiting for the rain to come
to thunder down
from a darkened sun
waiting for cascades
of song; for them to tell me
where I am and where I’m bound.
VIII
The journey resumes
we hold our breath
as if the journey will falter
and not continue
as if the journey
will halt, crack
and spill into the street
releasing us with it
the long haul, the short haul
ending the same way:
someone calls “cut”
and the scene is done ...
Yet the dead still whisper.
How can we ignore them?
How can we deprive them of
the love they desire?
Please don’t leave us here
alone in the dark.
Beyond the veil they go
they smile, they glow
and fill the clouds
to overflowing.
The dead wait for us
with gifts in kind
in their cold white hands
clear light of rain.
© Poems Ron Riddell, 2020