by Richard Hartwell
The millions of minions of men hurry to the sea,
Like the erred myth of the marching lemmings,
They are drawn silently back to their source.
None turn away from the sea and all,
All are drawn forward to the edge of the abyss,
Lapping against the yellowed shore.
Their shadows and pasts are cast behind them,
As they silently stare into the star beyond the sea.
Is the sun rising or setting, the day coming or going,
Are these watchers arriving or departing?
Perhaps our views are ever changing, one moment to the next,
Much as the basic truths of our visual psychology,
Shaken and altered by perspective and proportion,
Are made liquid to acknowledge the limits of our perception.
Shadowed figures, hooded as monks;
Even the yellow ones appear
Clad in saffron robes or foul-weather gear.
What can be more foul than not to know
If you are coming or going,
Regardless of the time?