A garden of heathens

Garden of heathens, faithful disbelievers,
Nevertheless, there is healing in the investigation.
The river then runs through the rain,
Indifferent to the rest of the water falling against and around it.
In time flowers too will bloom from this land of sinners,
A year ago you said we were the holiest of them,
that the disturbance we caused ushered a pilgrimage.
I still maintain they were chance encounters,
half answered prayers that found themselves,
confused and in front of us.
I fail to see who followed us, for so few remain if any at all.
I look over my shoulder and see the distant sign,
A house, the frame of one at least.
You’re standing there too,
the frame of you at least.

Yesterday

I need to write about Yesterday,
So we don’t forget.
Not you, not I, will ever forget.
We shouldn’t. We mustn’t.
I think from this moment onwards
I’ll always refer to yesterday, as Yesterday.
Yes, that’s what it should be.
It needs to be.
It has to be.
We’ll call it Yesterday, two days from now,
We’ll call it that, a week from now,
And even as the years go by,
That’s what it will always be.
Yesterday.