I am trapped
In time.
My passing rhyme
Must end
When he taps
Me on the shoulder
And says, “its over
My friend”.
And will aliens find
Fragments of poetry
And ponder on rhyme
And fleeting time?
Or will they see
An unintelligible line?
Or perhaps not care
When and where
We humans wrote,
Then cut our throat?
When the mirror finally breaks
There will be no lakes
Of pointless tears,
Just wasted years,
Reflected straight back
In shards of broken glass.
“Would you like to,
Again? before I go …?”
Her kiss!
Her hands!
His momentary bliss.
Time never stands
Still. Goodbyes are spoken
And banks open.
When I die
What will people see
In my poetry?
Will they read me
At all?
I will not know
Whether tis so
For in my pall
My poetry
Must surely go.
Though perhaps it may
Not be so.
Sometimes I think
On permanent things:
The birds that sing,
The grand old churches
And the trees.
Then the breeze,
Mingling with the rain
Shows what will remain.
When you and me
Are as the tree.
When the telescreens went on the blink,
A few took a lover
But, most, being fearful of Big Brother
Did not think
To riot. The Proles stayed quiet,
(Though members of the Thought Police
Where found drowned
In the poorer quarters of town).
Then, when the telescreens all got restored,
Things went on just as before.
My clock chimes
On a spring day.
Women and wine
Are mine,
But my springtime
Has passed
And the fast
Tick tock
Of antique clocks
Appeals not
To girls in heels
Who do not
Feel their clock
Soon must stop.
In my lonely hours
I have known
The pull of flowers.
I have grown
Weary of being alone
And bought wine
And flowers
To while
Away the time
With painted smiles
And blossom,
Fallen as I.
I open my window
And let in his cry
With the chill night air.
He is out there
Somewhere in the dark park,
Or the churchyard nearby.
I closed my
Window against the chill air.
He remained there,
(For how long I
Can not say).
Then his cry
Seemed to fade away.
In my younger days
I played
With many a maid.
Now my clock
Has stopped.
Yet still I rhyme
Of Father Time.
But all clocks wound
Must run down
K Morris - Poet 