The Triumph

What can triumph from this

we shudder

The rumblings of the earth

forewarned it

A little bird had told us

but it took a ballot box

of a dirty dilemma

to jolt us from our

toxic slumber

Stumbling and fumbling

in the darkness

created by our own hands

we shrug, sulk, snarl and shout

while the lanky melancholic poet

quietly leaves the table

as he said he would

leaving us wondering about

cracks in everything

and questioning

sorrow and redemption

Squinting towards the light

not yet convinced it is

bright or bold enough

to break through this

bleak blackness

There amongst the rubble

we notice

that for every breath in

there is a breath out

And as the leaves fall

and the days constrict

on one side

the blossom lifts

and the days lengthen

on the other

and we are comforted

that perhaps miracles

do come

We just have to go

to that edge

peel off our masks

unleash our chains

prick our ears

and stand there

And even if

we sweat and squirm

we hold our nerve

trusting in the treaty

between ourselves

of open hearts

of open minds

of open will

This will be our triumph

 

Poem: © Penelope Mavor 2016

Photo: Louise Mavor 2016