On the Last Day Comes the Indefinable

Deborah Walker
(England)

On the last day, when the red, dying sun
bounces long light on the lapping ocean,
we come.
Picking our way amongst the shallows,
Stepping amongst the replicating coral
rising in Fibonacci sequence:
zero, one, one, two, three, five eight . . . .
Where the infinitesimal fishes glint and shimmer hiding
from the shining, sharp-mouthed quadratic surds.

Our legs are slender stilts, sinking into reality’s sands.
I am the mountain, with staccato Jacob’s ladders.
Brother is a chasm to descend.
And darling Mother is the golden spiral without end.
Come to us, as is your want, and transcend.

Until there are few left on this reality’s shore,
those with downcast eyes,
and disbelieving algorithms winding
around their minds.
Come.
You may join us as we stride the ceaseless seas.
We are innumerable, indivisible,
We stride as the Colossus.
We are improbable, imaginary, irrational, without end,
There’s always room for more in our infinity.


Deborah Walker grew up in the most English town in the country, but she soon high-tailed it down to London, where she now lives with her partner, Chris, and her two young children. Find Deborah in the British Museum trawling the past for future inspiration or on her blog: deborahwalkersbibliography.blogspot.com. Her poems have appeared in Dreams & Nightmares, Star*Line and Enchanted Conversation.  


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