Reckoning

They just roll into one another now,

each year, each wrinkle, each hair turned

gray by passing day, every new morning -

a curse-perfect, blessed thing.

Always humbled by the haste of time,

for some there reamins a need to

gild the armour and prepare for the

onslaught -

men with their pitchforks,

kerosene dipped rags, set ablaze upon

wooden supports, mountainous hordes

outreaching for every piece of us.

They will come. They always do.

But not yet. So onward, all you sordid souls -

onward still over disquiet and worry,

over shame and revenge, over the mounds

of putrid battles there before you -

to the edges of the emboldened sea - follow me,

for I will be your captain.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.