An Unpleasanr Truism: While Poem by Richard Blanch

Time finds a glowing yellowness, a gold we thought was endless spring.
Gliding seamlessly along habitual ways she seemed to linger
Even to climb, quietly, with no urgency, by our side,
With noiseless stillness. Indeed we scarce moved. Higher and higher
Mildly we crept. But that is her lie, that is her guile. When thighs
Ache and we pause and look back, then comes the chill.
All the while she was running with us. Now the hill
Lies behind and all that is left is the final
Leap of fear; nowhere to hide. Now nothingness lies
Spread before. What was has vanished. The rill
That ran, nicely, unnoticed, by, is spent. The pile
Of something we stand on crumbles. Look our fill
On what we still can see. Time has become Until.
The long branch is cut into chopsticks. And try
As I may I cannot eat with them. We must die.
Sight soon will follow memory. O that tiresome old cry,
How it echoes as light fails and we think, what might
We have done down there in the valley. Tight
And painful it rings in the brain, taut and bright:
‘Make hay while the sun shines’- would we had listened, my
Companions – but where have they gone? - and I.….
How dry this place is. But what is dryness? This last long line, the ultimate goodbye.