The coming is the turning,
Weep not like birds
With scattered nestlings.
We know it
By the silence of our children
And the unsettled of our fishy selves.
The coming is in the morning,
Not like herds of cattle
Heading through appetite-gates,
Or like gazelles, running wildly
Into tangled bushpath, forgetting
The route they came through.
The coming approaches
Through the patient anticipation
Of children. It comes, comes,
Quietly to meet our anxious desires.
We will know the when of the turning.
The moonlight will reveal
The erratic flashes of our past,
The kingly betrayals, the
Tumultuous sufferings.
We know the coming is the turning,
When the fences crumble
On the grasshoppers and locusts,
When we handshake with
The warmth of our hearts.
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