Tell Us the Why of This

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/29/08

Walking, again, barefoot, on grass, we come
Once more to that most neglected corner of the garden.
Here, under a gnarled, storm-ravaged pear,
And amidst impenetrable baffles of bamboo,
Ivy, and untamable shade-thriving brambles,
A few gray chunks of plywood, thinned, damp,
And weathered are rotting back to fecundating earth.
Children played here, this the remains of their “fort”,
The stumps of their shrill, delighted voices
Still flowing from the ground, still insisting
On the privilege of going to war, the ruins
Of their predictive, primitive architecture,
A map for bombed out cities. Our hearts beat
For them, adults, now, somewhere, trying,
No doubt, to untangle the riddles of their fears
And aggressions, trying, no doubt, to prepare themselves
For the uninvited and unwelcome violence
That comes, perhaps, as the infamous thief
In the night, who brazenly defies even
The query of the incarnate saint,
The angel of God’s final enunciation.
“Where are you going, thief in the night,”
Asks the Savior, and the thief replies: “I go to kill
Children and pervert their dreams.” Now
The pilgrim, the walker, not the Saint,
But the other dreamer, barefoot, among
These vestigial dilapidations, cries,
And asks why the thief is allowed to pass,
And why the world of play is a world of war.

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.