The daisies remain,
Although not the same
As those I saw
Carpetting Nature’s floor,
When, as a child
I ran wild
And free.
I can almost see
The Daisy Chain,I made from nature’s great store.
Better to have left them on her green floor.
As it is much easier to disrupt than construct.
And the chain I composed
On the school playing field
Did yield
To time.
Am I arrogant to suppose
That this little rhyme
May outlast the brief hour
Of a daisy flower?
When the tick tock
Of the clock
Does stop,
I have found
That it is nothing profound,
For a clock
Is easily rewound.
The chime
Of my old, staid
Clock, does remind
me that there is a debt
To be paid.
But time,
Ends all regret.
I can choose
To wind my clock,
Or not,
As the case may be.
But, if I lose
The key,
Time will not stop
For me.
When clever men
Hear the clock,
They say,
“We do not
Accept the concept
Of time”.
And the poet composes
A simple rhyme
About roses,
Past their prime.
A mix
Of limbs
And diverse sins.
Some get their kicks
From rhyme.
Time
Passes
For lads and lasses.
Bodies intertwine
Genes travel on
Though we are gone,
Whilst others leave a rhyme
Behind, for posterity to find.
Its a brief stroll
Through the churchyard for me
And my soul.
And although there be
No clock in the church tower,
To chime
The hour
For me,
Time
Must stop
And there will be
No more need of clock
For thee
Or me.
