Reflections

Life is lived in moments:
a bubble in green jelly,
the yellow honey of the sun,
sky as blue as your t-shirt,
as naked as your toes.
A boat nodding like the mad
and moonlight as bright as day,
the afterglow of saints.
Time distilled in fragments,
rolls the stone away.
A scent, a sight of melancholy
sets shivers through the night.
Morning in quiet glory
a birdsong to the ground
that lies in its beaded blanket.
To the mind is a
butterfly caught in amber
like the sun coming
and dipping tree tops in gold.

Clock

Time wastes, slowly ebbing, the dull scratch: idle pens
Re-writing the past through scripts gone wrong.
The conundrum of what, of who, why and when
Will the hand ever move, its Titanic struggle echoes
Eyes that cannot entertain the book and whose hearts
Lie flat like the slain: crosses dignify, mud stains.
The afternoon, buzzing a gauze of sound beyond glass
Other shadows hidden, cooler than this glare.
The silence of the machine that shuts down their hope
Straining of minds at the closing down of time.
Their questions come more slowly when the clock
Seems to slow, they wait in youth, a steady afterglow.
A bird sings past, a streak of freedom, a dart of hope
But the clock holds them back stroke after stroke after stroke.