It was a long journey arriving.
A narrow road, tall hedges, frequent
bends where braking and slowing
was required. Sometimes, we had to
find a stopping place, pull into the side
allowing oncoming drivers space to
go their way. What made them flee?
We had one more hill to drive
up, slowly between stone walls
viewing below fields enclosed,
coming over the ridge, city below
sea beyond. It was now sunny
spring’s warmth penetrated
to road’s verges,
flowering primroses.
We joined the main highway;
traffic’s speed dropped to a
walking procession. Although
we had several miles more to
our destination, we thought it
better to park on a side street,
go forward on foot.
On the final march we found
many hungry wanderers, seekers
after long denied fulfilment. Our
private vision we found others
sharing and expressing. Common
force wrongness drew us towards
standing, shouting, resisting.
On the way, our map revealed
short-cut through a cemetery.
We turned and walked along
a boulevard of gated mausoleums;
some ivy-covered, neglected
others scrubbed of vines;
an honoring of the dead;
remembrance from the living.
When we reached further end
of this graveyard, I turned and
looked back. Bright sun’s glare
reflected from marble;
imagining iron gates
swinging open and
these dead rising;
together with us
claim humanity’s inheritance.
© 2025 Phil Kemp
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