Tag Archives: time passing

Passing Time

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.

I Recall Honeysuckle on a Wall

I recall honeysuckle on a wall
And the scent of Grandfather’s roses.
The poet composes
A rhyme
To Time
Who ends all.

In Early December

In early December
I heard
The dawn bird
And did remember
Another year
Will soon end.

My friends
Are growing older.
I hear
Pretty young women
Ask me
About family matters.

There will be
No more sinning.
Merely hot tea
And matters
Of domesticity
For me.

April Author Newsletter

I have just uploaded my April Author Newsletter which can be found here.

Time Passing

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by traditional (pendulum) clocks. The slow movement of the pendulum reminds me of Old Father Time chopping up seconds which will never return. There is, in the swing of a pendulum something both comforting and chastening. The slow swing reminds one of a slower pace of life, of a more stable/traditional society, while one is also conscious that each movement brings one’s demise fractionally closer. A number of my poems touch (either directly or indirectly) on the passage of time, including “The Hands Are Almost At Half-Past”, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2quCnrHgpE4.

“The Hands Are Almost At Half-Past” can be found in my collection of poems, “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems”, which is available for preorder in the Amazon Kindle store, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07GD1LBMV/ (for the UK) and https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GD1LBMV/ (for the USA).


A child plays ball below.
A long time ago
I lay in bed
The same sound running through my head.
The thud of ball on wall
Is all I recall.
The ball is now still
As evening falls over Beulah Hill.

As I wrote this, a child and an adult played ball in the garden below my home. The sound brought to mind lying in bed at boarding school (I was sick), as children played football in the playground below my window. The poem was penned today (as the game took place).