By River's Edge

Footprints by the river’s edge, leading close around the bend, Leave behind the memories of young days that came to end. Whispers on a morning’s breeze have sprung forth from river’s run, They carry the promises of those times still yet to come. Back upon the middle ground lost loves echo through the trees, Yet far beyond windswept plains they are travelling with ease. The pathway through meadows green calls to spirits needing rest, It will lead to comfort zones as the sun sets in the west. Suddenly through murky haze one can hear slow, beating drums, They march out the changing guard that been rebuilding the slums. Silence greets the fallen walls in the darkness of the night; Stain glass windows on the way hold out endless hope for light. Open fields of trampled grain became playgrounds of the lost, Not even the wisest men could begin to count that cost. Now the distant falling rains wash away the ageing deals, While judges turn their blind eyes to the long list of appeals. Standing by the river’s edge, listening to the whispered breeze, I can hear an ancient tongue begging for the Kingdom’s keys. I’m not going anywhere in this burning midday sun; I will wait upon the times which were promised still to come.