The Ashen Crossing Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'the ashen crossing'


The archway is dust, and the mortar is sighing,
We stood on the lip of the canyon and watched the timber crack.
Kesh-va-tor. The word means 'forward.'
But who can spell the road when the span falls black?

We carried the oil, we carried the torches, we called it a sacred fire,
An absolute line in the bedrock, a beautiful, terrible spire.
Now the smoke clears.
The wind shears.

We are anchored to the ledge we chose.
No retreat to the valley, no ghost-walk back through the snows.
The gulf is wide, the air is cold, the final timber falls—
And when there are no longer bridges to burn,
The only direction left
Is the sky,
Or the walls.






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