a slow pace downstairs,
out of night’s territory,
shapes and objects reappearing.
We’re walking for peace, my son and I;
the world stopped with his emergence
five weeks ago, then resumed its clamour.
Head cradled in my left hand, body
in my right, each step follows the last
simply, like nothing else.
This walk has taken my whole life to rush towards.
We’re getting nowhere, hurryless;
only now, at fifty-five, to shoulder something.
Back pats signalling peace
as our only goal,
we’ve come through so much already,
the aggression of milk and feeding
by no means all negative –
everything but fresh red blood.
We walk on: left foot, then right, then left
again. We walk for those who’ve died getting born
and those so far to the other end,
they could almost reach, here,
in through the void’s
thin white paper/screen.
No one knows we’re doing this,
yet so much rests
on the lifting and the placing,
the placing and lifting;
one foot rises, moves through air
and comes down
while the other braces to lift.
Walking so slowly
this could almost be art,
the ephemeral sort.