A shadow followed me
From tree to tree
As I did pass
Along the woodland path.
I paused to hear
The sweet birds sing.
And thought of spring
And the passing year.
Although I forgot my shadow,
My shadow did not go.
For our sweet birdsong
Does not last long.
My clock has stopped.
It’s chime
Has ceased.
One day, eternal peace
Shal be forever, mine
And thine.
A confession
About my obsession
With clocks.
Their ticks
And tocks.
But all obsessions,
Eventually, stop.
This winter sunshine.
This ticking clock.
Now I am here.
Then I am not.
This wine
Is not divine.
Yet it is good.
The sun may shine
On me tomorrow.
And the clock on the wall
Has no will at all.
Nameless women survive in a rhyme
And time
Would laugh, if it could
At poets who obsess
Over their reputation,
And the unknowing tick tock,
Of the uncaring, ensnaring clock.
Pick your fights wisely my friend.
You may pretend
That you can stop the clock.
Of course, you may
The clock’s hands stay,
Or mock time
In a rhyme.
But, in the end
Your inner clock
Will stop,
My friend.
We may
Never see tomorrow.
For each moment we borrow.
And tomorrow’s sun
Must become,
Today.
Time passes
In women
And glasses.
“What is sinning?”
The religious ask.
“Does it exist?”,
I reply.
Theologians persist,
“All this will pass”.
While poets smile
And compose a rhyme
To many a pretty lass,
And time
Which does so quickly pass.
They have fun
In the sun.
Their perfect
Bodies reject
The fact that they
Will grow old.
Where I to be bold
And say,
“All this will pass
Away”,
Lad and lass would laugh.
Though, perhaps a thoughtful few
Would say
“That’s true.
But we must
Enjoy our day
Ere we are dust”.
And I would nod,
And go away.
I walk the man-made
Woodland path,
Where past
Lovers played.
Today, lovers still laugh,
And sigh.
Whilst I
Pass by
An old oaktree,
Which has stood
In this ancient wood,
Long before, them, and me.
