The Last Crusade
Most of his mature life
had been a process of recoiling
and mending.
Until late
he had not suspected
that this prolonged retreat
had been his lot.
He thought he was building bricks,
constructing a living edifice
while in realty he was engaged
in an epic dismantling.
He thought he had made inroads,
woven together great journeys,
drawing to himself many pathways
toward a destination or purpose.
Yet of late, he felt
that his life had been a slow withdrawing,
a giving way
disguised as steps forward.
Despite this new understanding
he sensed a strange vindication,
as if it were more noble to give way
and draw back.
The battle at last lost,
the surrender acknowledged;
today he whistles a tune
that the thorn bushes sing
when a homeless wind
rattles through them.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment