A pause in the footsteps might be perceived as a decision to go no further

acts and facts
as observed from collected vantage points
around which meanings swirl
a bang today is a bop tomorrow
and a blip next week

the fire at one’s back is still warm
even when it is behind and out of sight
the well fills slowly
as full of echoes as Cambodian karaoke
well well well, Delilah
is it time to draw water?

first drafts benefit from unreadable scrawl
a reminder of a forgotten grasp of a perennial idea
trapped briefly but escaping to float by another day
a sacrifice to the gods of seeking
it was written, but it is undecipherable
the mystery is retained
the well is refilled
that the thaw may come
that the river may rise

an aging mind still goes a-roving through
pastures old and new
with the weightings changed
childhood thoughts amplified over yesterday’s crises
experiences re-examined under
microscopes of powers vastly higher

stories warp in the retelling and then
defy the old interpretations
praise and blame re-investigated
past enthusiasms and certainties come up for questioning
the hills that we would die for
become molehills that merely trip us up

the descent can be dark
tug on the rope and be pulled up
knees banging on the sides of the well as we rise
echoing like Cambodian karaoke
recover with a nice cold beer
while the sun dries you like a tomato

the praise and blame of memories
artefacts – consider our use of the French word souvenir –
sewn together in a coat of many manoeverings
refreshed approximately annually
at those times
like birthdays and anniversaries
when one is liable to take stock and retell the stories
to sit and think and holler down the well

if I was right then
and now the interpretations that were fashionable at the time have changed
might I now have built a character on shifting sands?
call the building inspectors!
call the cops!
pressure is building behind the dam
good and bad examples alike have come untethered
and are storming the castle and overturning the furniture
the boy who stuck his finger in the dyke
has cried wolf
the hero of the beach has kicked sand in the face of Charles Atlas

but still, my heart
no more hollering down the well
refresh against agitation with a nice cold beer
as the sun dries you like a tomato
then on your feet!
face the fire!
whistle down that wind!