Where Words Reach...or Night Watchman

Words reach into the air where the Night Watchman never sleeps

Thought yearns and turns to prayer beneath His ever-list’ning keep

The filament of hours spills its will to yesterday

We stoop to count hope’s pocket-pence a-scattered in its fray

Time’s touch is ever hungry for those things beyond its reach

We gather in its rendering the lessons it must teach

And some find mirth and money while others find only pain

For some the skies are sunny and for some it always rains

The Night Watchman loves all the children of Time’s trying sphere

He is the witness to our need, our greed, both smile and tear

And while some stuff their larders where another licks the crumbs

Time does not beg or barter but forevermore becomes…

…becomes the aftermath of choice, the proof of our first love

Often the hand becomes the voice as thought dons living’s glove

And while some loll in coffers laden with silver and gold

Others endure love's offers of grief, loneliness and cold

The Night Watchman never forsakes His post but tends full-well

His people harboring a soul bound for heaven or hell

How still the night expands into black eons overhead

Foolish to flex our gifted hands and boast ‘bout gifted bread

For all we have is but the granting of God’s grace whereby

We go, whether with humble praise or bitter quest of ‘why’

The Night Watchman longs for the prayer where care and need beseech

He bends His ever-list’ning ear to where whispered words reach…

© Janet Martin