We, set amongst a bower of hours that stilly slip
Through buds that spill to flower, like laughter upon the
lip
Where Winter, like an uncle tweaking cherry cheeks and nose
Is soon wooed by a maiden laden with lilac and rose
Where like a stream, Time slides between tried trees that
line its brink
And dreams, like paper boats float on its silver gleam, then
sink
Where Time enough is not enough to learn the ways of Love
How all we give and get is nice and yet, not quite enough
Where woods are like a temple, all by one true God designed
And worshippers assemble on moss-pews, views vine-entwined
… the preacher is a whisper of the wind in lofty tress
Where creature comes to reckon, without God, sad emptiness
Where, Time unfurls fresh offers in blush banners on the
east
And earth unchains its coffers in an awesome
beauty-feast
Where in and out of season we don work-shoes day-to-day
Not as a curse but to keep hunger’s howling hounds at bay
Where we, in this together; rich with poor and young with
old
Are tethered to a Myst’ry flesh and blood cannot behold
Where what remains to be seen sometimes steals our utter
breath
Where time is but a prelude to a place succeeding Death
Here we are, shod with daily struggle to survive Time’s
stead
Of tuning rebel-will to God’s and filling mouth with bread
© Janet Martin
