After  

There's a chasm in grief
between two pillars of dust  
that rest either side of the fissure,
neither side green,  
neither side plush
nor warm  
nor grows
anything  
but heaps more dust.  
Both sides fizzle, roar
as if dinosaurs breathe,
tear through the flesh of what's left
trapped in a boulder-rich-rise.  
There's a chasm
on the landscape
that will never reseal,
tribes shoot short sharp arrows  
at one another in the interim,
as if they were not once whole,  
as if the land  
was never a grounding point  
for hope  -  
sometimes  
I consider an abseil,  
a conversation with depth,  
a song within a gap,  
swim
until it feels richer,  
so I can cope with goodbye,  
embrace the force and swell,  
reroot within the rift
of an opportunity
to again go flowing
forwards.