Story Poem, Nr.15 — The Wall and The River

Four generations, friendly, side by side    
our two families had farmed, with the old wall    
a place for meeting and shaking of hands    
discussing harvests, the weather, a stall    
for the Christmas Fayre; plus old friends who’d died.    
    
The altercation came one Fall when cows    
of mine, just twenty or so, were found    
eating his grass, having crossed a broken spot    
where crumbled stones collapsed in a small mound    
rolled down the slope to where the river flows.    
   
He banged hard on my door, smelling of drink    
shouting obscenities and with a curse    
I tractored out to deal with all the mess -    
and slowly, to avoid things getting worse,    
mended the wall alone, with time to think.    
   
What demons lie in a man’s gut and heart?    
Men’s ancient charge to provide and protect,    
build homes, women and children first, fight wars,    
duty, leaving shell-shocked men, young lives wrecked    
unless by chance they heal the damaged parts.    
   
After that our conversations grew thin;    
a minor matter fouled what once had been    
an easy-going friendship. And war’s pains?    
Manly seen as just another job, keen    
to “get over it” - a solution; gin.    
   
The boundary river with natural length    
oblivious to Man’s testy divides    
provides water for the both of us still;    
while the wall, one tenth as wide, might decide    
peace or war, with an unreasonable strength.    
   
   
   
#RobertFrost