For Tricia Durdey
As she walked up the muddy, overgrown path –
a path that was sometimes beside the river
in white-water spate from a night of rain,
and sometimes through the oak woods, leaves falling
gently as if choreographed – she thought
despairingly of events half the world
away, the rights and wrongs of ancient horrors,
modern outrage. When she reached the summit
there was World’s End: a ruined chapel.
A crow flew up noisily from what
might have been the altar. From crevices
in the tumbled walls ferns grew, and moss
covered the floor’s broken paving stones –
a seemingly romantic, gothic folly.
Local legend had berserk Norsemen slaughter
Celtic Christian families hiding in the chapel,
and set the oaken roof-beams alight.
She began to descend, thinking how easy
the legend made choosing the right side,
the side of goodness, and kindness, of hope
not despair, however much such a choice
was a considered act of faith and balance –
like walking downhill on that muddy path
safely beside the tumbling river.
Suddenly she thought we are more than our lives,
and smiled at such mystical metaphysics,
but said out loud, ‘Yes, we are more than our lives’.
By David Selzer