THE POEM
Among the wolves
You fear to walk among the wolves
but tramp instead upon the drifting dust
of cruel and cold despair,
while your shoes are shined and polished
and hidden away somewhere.
They are buried beneath excuses
that blind your eyes with fear,
they shackle your feet and hold you back
from bringing peace
to town and village square.
Your discontent is savaged
by the razor teeth of greed
while lilies in the roadside fields
bloom and bow and sway with grace,
knowing little of want or need.
And woe to you at journey’s end
whose words have not been spoken;
you never stood on holy ground
but lay instead with your face cast down,
the bones in your feet all broken.
Yet in that hour of darkness
when no travelling can be done
prophet’s words appear as lamps
guiding those on stumbling stones
who wrestle in the dust alone.
And you who only carry shoes,
you drown your feet in pleasure,
you will never walk on water;
and the wolves will never know your measure;
the wolves will never know your measure.
Mark Raffills
