W.S. George
writer composer

Our Brother Fell Back Home

They found me adrift somewhere on the Volta
dead, or asleep it is hard to tell:
I do not speak that language anymore.

My dreams are filled
with the Gospel and cheese;
The angels are white and Heaven is cold;
Some said Winter had come early.

“Wait for Spring to shed your old clothes,
then frolick with us in the wild…”

They dragged me onto a bed of reeds,
among the crabs, school children
(by their age, not uniforms)
had come to see the spectacle.
I heard them giggle, some circled me
and sang to wake me up,
or mourn my death, it is hard to tell:
I do not speak that language anymore.


© 2017 William Saint George