With all the force to be mustered, nothing happened.
Assured the condition was only temporary,
we were told to return to our houses,
to leave the lights off and get into our beds.
To tremble at powers far beyond our comprehension
Elsewhere, the shuffling of feet and new brooms sweeping.
Nations prospered or were in a state of disrepair.
Great leaders were found weeping in their kitchens.
You could hear the big made small and vice versa.
When nothing happened the sea stayed its course,
a few rivers returning to their sources,
snow falling where it had never been seen before,
schools shutting early, churches condemned,
streets aswim in malodorous slurry.
When nothing happened the intangible was poured out.
The invisible travelled to every world but this world.
Drones and workers busied themselves with pointless chores,
tasks done for their own sake and that were soon undone,
accomplishment a fine thing, necessity triumphant.
Still, nothing happened, unexpectedly violent and shrill.
Earth shook and seas shimmered.
Season followed season, nature adrift
in a strong current, our master and our servant.
The planets turned towards the sun and the moon was quartered.
Bells could be heard across every land,
both in celebration and as tolls of warning.
We were lulled and warm and quite secure.
But then something happened . . .
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His latest book, Boxing in the Bone Orchard is available now via Frontenac House.
YouTube: @BruceMcRae-u3u
