Once we would have been afraid to walk on the dust.
But as it gently curls over where we walk
And sometimes reaches the nostrils,
You think, how drole, how like any dust,
How like ordinary dust from road carts
Spread one inch thick everywhere.
A few of us did not see it
Sweetly descending in the steady after earthquake drizzle.
We think it must have come to us
Like spores from an upward rushing mushroom,
Covering our homes and well loved walks.
A few of us now remain to walk the streets
Void of love, and even void of selfish hurry.
Now we see how strange our self destruction was.
We only wanted to be happy,
But we only loved for the sake of love returned,
Or dealt honestly to ease the conscience.
Now we do not even own our ability to weep.
A few of us remain to make our peace with the dust.
1961
Mary Argent copyright