My old clock I wind
And much philosophy therein find.
I can bring
The pendulum’s swing
To a stop With my hand,
Yet I can not command
Time to default
On his duty and halt
The passing of the years.
He has no ears
For our laughter and tears
And his sickle will swing on
Long after we are gone.
The clocks have gone back and the weather is cold.
The bold
Venture outdoors.
The temperature underscores
That winter is here
And the year
Is nearing it’s close.
Fingers and toes
Freeze.
There is no breeze,
Only the chill air to please
Senses the all encompassing heat
Would defeat
Roses red
Speak of bed
To some.
How life does run
On.
Soon Valentines will have come
And gone
As the pendulum swings on.
I doubt tomorrow will be fine
Yet women and wine
Are surely divine?
The line
Betwixt leg and skirt.
Lonleness does hurt.
Will she stay
On Valentine’s day?
The sky slowly darkens.
He harkens
To birds.
No words.
Only the sun sinking
And him thinking
On time
And the divine.
Leaves blown at night.
Delight
Sorrow.
This moment we borrow
And think of a tomorrow
That may never come.
We run
Perchance have fun
Then, ‘Tis done.
—
Walking my dog at around 4:30 on a blustery December evening, I was conscious of the fallen leaves blowing around me. This gave rise to the above poem.
Kevin
It is almost dark at ten to four.
One year more
Has Almost gone.
Time with stealthy, unhurried tread, moves inexorably on.
—
13 December 2015.
Why do I write
oft long into the night?
Is it for pure delight
at the craft
or am I daft?
I hear my clock’s chime.
Time
crouches near.
The year
is drawing to it’s close.
The writer knows
that words live on
long after he is gone,
so strives to leave a mark
on this world stark.
A light that glimmers
in the dark
Illumining the human heart.
(Upper Norwood, 27 November 2015).
The reaper moves
In time with the pendulum.
No rush
Or fuss
He has plenty of time.
My patient friend
whose tick portends
my inevitable end.
You rest in state
on my bookcase.
Tick tock
I can not stop
time’s sithe.
None can survive
his cut.
Though in a cupboard my clock be shut
death can not be put
aside
The sickle chops
And the heart will, one day, stop.
The bird he speaks to me of wasted time
of how I labour inside when the weather is fine.
The dog rolls on his back, paws in the air
For my writing he does not care.
The sky it darkens in the west.
I cease my toil, that is best.
The pendulum has become detached,
The mechanism moves to fast.
Hands race around the face,
Time is out of place.
My antique clock’s eratic chime,
All is not fine.
The wooden case gleams,
But something has gone awry with the machine.
K Morris - Poet 