Tuesday, January 19, 2016

The Poetry of Time



I have a folder of Barry Hopkins articles clipped from The Wellington Advertiser. 
He is a wise observer of man and beast, sky and sod...

Upon a canvas made of years
Life pens verses; love’s smiles, hurt’s tears
Where page-on-page its haste endears
With numerals, each flitting bit
And looking back we come to see
How precious is the brevity
Of what we hold and then set free
To be the memory of it

Upon a stack of ills, bills, thrills
Black ink of night musters refills
Of morning light that brightly spills
Then drains into dusk-blue cajole
As youth learns truth; how we entrust
Our dream to time’s ultimate; dust
And yet it bears a sacred Must
Because this dust harbours a soul

Upon time’s give and taking ways
We scrawl as rise and falling days
Dawn clear then fade to distant haze
Where we gaze, amazed at the rhyme
Of clock-chimes tolling hour on hour
They break the bud and shake the flow’r
Back to the earth to birth spring’s bow’r
We call the poetry of Time

© Janet Martin

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