The Mosey

The Mosey

There goes the old woman
to wash the pews at the white church.
Nearby an old man slowly turns
the earth up into the air.
There is a dowager moving
along the small town streets.
She is tending the families
of the dead and leaving cakes.
It is a morning from my childhood
that has disappeared
in preparation for technology.
It is the mosey that once strolled
in fresh air, in an old world
where children played outside
and knew to be silent at prayer.
But I am awake now, and here,
the cash drawers ring,
the children scream more,
everyone seconds the motion,
and no one can hear the church bell
for the main street traffic
If I seek the mosey now
I must follow my path to the river.
It is there that I find
the bird kids of a better world
nesting content in their environment.
In great swells of wind play
they fly from branch to branch
seeking opportunity in the value
of a sunny day.
When the snow comes, they sit
in charcoal rows on high limbs,
and watch the mosey
who seldom moves now,
dip her red bob on a cane pole,
into the quiet river.

Reviews

[Terry Collett]

This poem is like an invitation to travel with you on the journey; unseen companion, one there to accompany not to interfere or disturb. I was there; great work.

[Ladysue]

Great imagery in this piece. I can see it. Just beautifully expressed...

[W.k.kortas]

For those of us who are old enough to be familiar with the term "mosey", this certainly takes us back--but this is not just a nostalgic set piece. The imagery is wonderful, the pacing and the language just right.

[Ed Hart]

everyday you bring us the gifts of yourself, and it is a wonder...