Collapsed under the sheer weight of traffic, implosion caused by heavy loads that were never yours to bear, not for you to carry, even for that one moment in which they passed over, rumbling in thundering juggernauts. Now you stand, cracked and broken, dug out to the composite core, fissures filling with rainwater, and see no way out. There is no budget for repairs, no end to the emptiness, and you sink down and spread out in your misery, and even your edges are lost to you.
Road pock now avoided by all, leper of the lane, I pray might you now find a calm in the centre of the highway that you grace. Might you now relax into your frayed borders, new crow’s feet cracks forming as you take the time to laugh in the rain. Might you now, perhaps, sometimes sing of what lies beneath the smoothness and teach all of us how to make ponds and gardens out of the sinkholes in our lives.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Here lie the dead, the broken bones of former prophets, those heads so full of passionate words now skulls beneath my feet, where my own skin is crawling and taut, treading as gently, as reverently, as I can in the dark. Here is mud and far worse, knee deep and stinking, the refuse of the city tossed in daily. My cell is by royal command, no-one dares speak to me as they hurry past, hoods pulled tight across mouth and nose.
For this at least I am grateful, to be left alone with my thoughts, nothing impeding my soul-cry to the God who put me here. This is the reward for obeying the fire in your throat, you see. And perhaps my God-servant friend will come and rescue me, or perhaps I will die here and join my kin, sinking down into thirsty delirium: the irony of a parched prophet in a dry watering hole. But wait, here are footsteps of my gentle Ebed-Melech, and God has even remembered the soreness under my arms, and living water will again flow here in this place.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015