End of Time - Above the Avalon

Dory on the Avalon, oil on canvas, 45.5"x 65.5", Steven Rhude, private collection

Above the Avalon it's the end of time.
  You can see the soaring preachers,
and hear their endless whine.


It's the year of the end of cities; since the month and day make twelve,  
    great excuse to escape the text; or even let go of the plow.
The prodigal son returned home in rags,
   all his plan's had to be shelved.
His father welcomed him back, then the predictionist took a bow.  


It's the month of the end of community; since the day and the hour make twelve,
  we stumbled upon a Nail House in a road,
resisting us once
                         twice,
                          three times,
                                              Just the bones left,
 of a once humble abode.


Above the Avalon it's the end of time.
  You can see the marching preachers,
in an endless line.


It's the day of the end of landscape; since the hour and the minute make twelve,
  shards of memory are but counterfeit warmth,
for the painter, with brush, and rag, and cold.
  Then the post modernist's son returned home - his plans too were shelved.
See, his Daddy didn't care for protocol,
  so, like Kyoto, those plans did fold.


It's the hour of the end of perspective; since the minute and the second make twelve,
  come election time, the bag is full,
up on Capital Project Hill.
  No one noticed the accountant's son return,  for to the books he delved.
Oblique projections factored in,
   he knew his own children would get the bill.


Above the Avalon it's the end of time.
You can see the circling preachers,
in their robes so fine. 
 

It's the minute of the end of light; since a second and a breath make twelve,
   Knowledge, Truth, and Wisdom were then purchased from a vending machine.
While the sun set without a trace.
   Memory's son returned home alone - in his head his dreams rang like bells.
Floods, tsunami, and pestilence,
   over shadowed moments of grace.


It's the last second of the end of time, hold your breath and count to twelve,
   the Mayans are on deck for the twenty first,
 no resistance can stop the lifting of the veil.
   So the end returns again, in the form of a snake the Times did tell,
ration now before it's to late, 
   there's little time to fail.

Above the Avalon the end of time has passed again.
   You can still see the soaring black backed gulls,
and hear their endless whine.


Steven Rhude, Wolfville