Across the Bridge

Adrift Throughout the Day

I awoke this morning with a song

--Where Have All the Flowers Gone—

the Kingston Trio version from ‘62

playing in a loop through my groggy mind,  

which by noon had drifted on a humid

breeze into scribbled notes for this poem,

soon eddying into a murmuring afternoon

bike ride on the Spanish Moss Trail

where it took what some might say a wicked

turn into Where Have All the Clergy Gone?

an odd refrain to ponder over a 5 o’clock glass

of wine on the side porch, the two of us

swatting no-see-ums, the melody dragging

me by the ear into an eclipse of dark

wonder wondering why the anointed

guardians of our souls, with no obligation

under the setting sun but to lift the fallen,

feed the hungry, comfort the bereft, shine

a light on a path, among so many paths,

to goodness, to kindness, to righteousness,

would abandon us on the cross

of their blasphemies, telling us who is not

loved, who is not chosen, who is doomed,

in turn turning us against each other, turning

their backs on us to follow the drum beat

of two-bit Lucifers and Antichrists all

around the looping world adrift in darkness

even as I drift off to sleep, this ear worm

burrowing into dreams of the boy I left

behind a long time ago, the one

who still believes we are all innocent

children, sisters and brothers adrift

on a spinning planet, long time passing.

            –SL, Port Royal, SC, April 2024