The day recedes into the past
As night inhales its waning gleam
And into Time’s depleting stream
Our little deeds of day are cast
The miles and smiles of centuries
Stretch silently within the wake
Of moments; for we cannot take
From it but this; its memories
How still the rush of bleeding hours
How kind and cruel its ruthless flow
For none can see where moments go
So I must pause and smell the flowers
And I must pause to see the corn
A silver sea in noon-day heat
The laughter of a child is sweet
As on the breeze its lilt is borne
And as the dark curls o’er the day
And as the twilight curtain drops
Time does not slow and only stops
When it is far too late to say…
I wish that I had paused far more
To hold a child upon my knee
And listen long and willingly
Before the closing of its door
© Janet Martin
