Time Flies
… bends like a boomerang,
flies too rapidly away,
limps back to the hand.
Endless this shuffle of unmarked
days dropping off the calendar.
Hands stop on the clock.
The pendulum swings:
time and tide stand still,
do not move.
‘As idle as a painted ship
upon a painted ocean.’
The painting in my grandma’s room:
seemingly moving seas,
sails swelling out,
but the ship doesn’t move,
it stays firm in its frame.
Our garden fills with birds
and squirrels, light and dark.
Morning ablutions: each day
a twin of the day before.
The TV screen churns ceaselessly,
tired, shadow faces boring us
with shallow wit
and worn-out wisdom.
Time:
an albatross around the neck,
an emu, an ostrich, a dodo,
an overweight bumble bee,
too clumsy, too heavy to fly.
rogermoorepoet 