As a child, I had a round Goldfish bowl.
The fish their whole
Lives spent
(I thought content)
Swimming in never ending circles in that plastic tank.
The frank
Man or woman may
Perhaps smile ruefully and say
“I have spent a day
Or more in that self-same way,
But at some future time I will
Be still”.
I do not care
For this must
And dust
That thickens
The air.
The scent sickens
Me,
Yet I must
Agree
(as is so often foretold),
That we end our days in dust
And mould.
If the stream flows
But the fish die,
Then who am I?
I perceive
That a stream can not grieve,
Nor can it wish
For future fish.
Oh tree at the edge of the park,
Oh warm imperfection of bark,
You where here ‘Ere I came,
And when I am gone, you shall remain.
Introspection
May lead to dejection,
But it is better to think
Than lose oneself in drink.
This poem came to me while sitting in my study. Shadows played upon the walls and brought to mind the impermanence of things. I am visually impaired but can see the play of shadows on my wall, although I cannot read print.
The estate agent’s lights fade.
I wander home,
Thinking on other temporary things.
On such a day, when the winter sun
Casts my shadow upon yonder wall,
It is difficult to recall
That all
This will, one day be done.
In future will some other one, sitting here, and seeing their shadow fall
Upon this self-same wall,
Know that they may not forestall
The night
When dancing shadows are, forever lost from sight.
—
(Written on 3 December 2016, while sitting in my study).
K Morris - Poet 