Dear Family--
Kilby wrote the below poem several years ago for Grandpa, and today read it aloud to him before going to church as he lay gurgling on his bed. Then she and I sang a few hymns to him -- Abide with Me being the last. After we all came home from church, Grandpa went to be with the Lord at ten minutes till two.
- - -
Long way down the winding years,
summer droughts have dried
what once had been a laughing stream
rushing down the riverbed.
If we follow where once ran
waters strong and deep,
might we come to a softer place,
not so hard and stony
where, after bends and breaks and falls,
the widened mouth would open
and engulf a seeping flood
from the backwash of the ocean?
Old river, cracked and dry,
does your spirit hover
above the water, like the mists,
drawn by morning sun?
Old hands, now cracked and dry,
worn with tender love,
could you gain some feeble strength
if another held you?
What once was a young stream
tumbling down a chasm,
further down its sandy bed
grew into a river.
But life’s toils and hard’ning fate
dried the water up,
baring depths before concealed –
the heart of that deep river.
Laughter no more rings out loud,
nor do tears more flow,
but a lonely, haunting wight
will moan along the riverbed.
Old river, cracked and dry,
does your spirit hover
above the water, like the mists,
drawn by morning sun?
Old hands, now cracked and dry,
worn with tender love,
could you gain some feeble strength
if another held you?
Winding down along the bed,
Time has wandered sadly,
looking for old memories
and bright hopes now faded,
calling friends now long departed,
finding but despair,
looking to the heav’ns for rain,
finding but the sun.
Wearied, dried, the river’s course
fin’lly sights the ocean
far away, clothed in a fog
eluding its poor seeker.
Old river, cracked and dry,
does your spirit hover
above the water, like the mists,
drawn by morning sun?
Old hands, now cracked and dry,
worn with tender love,
could you gain some feeble strength
if another held you?
See, we now have come upon
a joining at the sea-coast,
runs the path of the riverbed
to the wide, wide waters.
But that ocean can’t refresh
the old and wightish river,
for its moisture only mocks
the panting riverbed.
All along, the pebbles stumble
down the riverbed,
just to stop before the water
that the ocean holds.
Old river, cracked and dry,
does your spirit hover
above the water, like the mists,
drawn by morning sun?
Old hands, now cracked and dry,
worn with tender love,
could you gain some feeble strength
if another held you?
On the mountains, high as heaven,
cold and bright and young,
there’s some water, drifted there
by a chilling wind.
Once lifted from a rushing stream,
and borne into the air,
the child of the riverbed
lies asleep above.
Spring’s fresh warming, waking breeze,
along with the gaze of the sun,
will touch the young, white bridal child
and send it, playing, down.
Old river, cracked and dry,
does your spirit hover
above the water, like the mists,
drawn by morning sun?
Old hands, now cracked and dry,
worn with tender love,
could you gain some feeble strength
if another held you?
Down along the riverbed,
so cracked and dry and withered,
she can sweep the wearied stones,
down toward the ocean.
She can wake the dormant dreams,
and renew sweet mem’ries.
She can bear the jeweled pebbles
to the oceans breast.
She can put to rest that wight
that moans for friends departed.
She can soothe the cracked, dry heart
of her father river.
Old river, young again,
see where your child hovers –
her laughter brings back years gone by,
lightens all your trouble.
Old hands, so cracked and dry,
accept the tender love
the hands you washed and held and kissed
now give you, not unwilling.
Long way down the winding years,
at the river’s end,
a splash of life in the riverbed
eases the river’s passing.
(www.kilbyspoetry.blogspot.com)
