“Carry! Carry!”
Short legs, deep leaves, tired.
“Carry?”
“Just a little while....”
To the next path, the next stile,
the next difficulty.
Till father wearies, too, and the leaves fall
amber, dun, and the year turns
to winter and the child grows,
and knows
that she grows heavier, more difficult
to manage.
“Carry me, carry me;
my legs won’t work no more,
daddy....”
“No, sweetheart, not now,
you’re old enough to walk,
to be a big girl now.”
Old enough;
the leaves fall still, one by one;
men fall, one by one.
Women crawl, one by one.
Children call, one by one -
and refugees pass
one by one by one....
Old enough?
Deep leaves. Tired.
Father, carry us. One
more time.
No, my children, all my children;
you are old enough to walk.
(November,
1979)
