Sand On Your Shoes

My Greek ancestors, and I’m sure I have some, 

knew that somewhere out there in the desert, 

in the land that everyone must cross, there runs 

a river. It runs quite shallow, and there is no bridge, 

but we must ford it, wade our way through the water 

and, while it may not wash away our sins, 

it takes their memories and sweeps them out to sea. 

We will emerge, fresh and clean, and ready 

for whatever lies on the other bank. There is 

a mist that hangs over the water, and the other side 

is not yet plain to see. There are shadows of figures, 

Strangers? Lovers? but we will not have to wade 

our way until we reach the final sleep, 

and we are ready for whatever there might be.

But why, but why have you come to the banks so early?

before your bones were ready for their sleep 

and the water washes barely round your ankles?

The river doesn’t choose what it takes, 

the sand on your shoe carries no instruction. 

The river takes what it takes and, leaving your body, 

it has taken you.