The final fruit of Time is death -
or hunger-strike for your last breath.
Not all confess finality -
think, whether out of box or tree,
at least process of consciousness,
by divine or natural finesse,
will call Time to begin again
and clip their ticket on his train
(express complete with ghost and tin
mug - tales of Eternity there to spin).
Time's intervening fruits are various -
brush all teeth left you or grow carious!
Time puts great distances from dread
but whirls new scythes about your head.
Time can take high passion's flower
and wither it in you, or her.
True love may just scrape by his test
but gets to wear Time's baggy vest.
Forgetting that which you should rue
is down to Time's white tablets too.
Take 'em till your carcass crock.
No, no, old heart. Keep on. Tick tock!
.......................
As I Stood in The Doorway
As I stood in the doorway,
while blackbird chucked Time's chin,
big drops fell from the hedgerow,
pegged shirts sagged sullen.
Long legged fly flew by me,
through lances of the rain.
I spooned an avocado
not minded to complain.
I've shelter of the doorway,
and soft touch of the drops
did ever snail house better
in savoy cabbage tops
where water so quicksilvers,
dribbling veins of broad green leaves?
I wonder if snails ponder
silver similarities?
Seed globes stuck so spiky
their time won't fly today.
But He swooped by to tweet me:
'So many clocks in play.
The blackbird best beguile you,
so gently let day slide.
Long lapse of life befall you -
for I can bide.'
As I stood in the doorway,
while blackbird chucked Time's chin,
big drops fell from the hedgerow,
pegged shirts sagged sullen.
Long legged fly flew by me,
through lances of the rain.
I spooned an avocado
not minded to complain.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
ŞiirThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
